


What Belongs to the Sea

by TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A couple of weird love triangles where the word love is probably incorrect, Abusive Relationship, Angst, Attempted self harm, Cannibalism, Chains, Collars, Dehumanization, Elias Bouchard is canon-typical terrible, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Marriage, Gaslighting, It begins pre-season 1 and then gets into canon times, Just an absolutely feral Jon in this one boys, M/M, Manipulation, Mild physical domestic abuse, Selkie!Jon, Selkies, Selkies are creatures of the flesh so kind of Flesh!Jon but not that gross, Some elements of stockholm syndrome, Violence, minor gore, tags will be added as it continues, this is gonna be a long one folks but don't worry it's all plotted out, we promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 126,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoDrunkenCelestials/pseuds/TwoDrunkenCelestials, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyNotFly/pseuds/WhyNotFly
Summary: “My grandmother taught me about selkies,” said the tattooed man.  “Said it’s good luck for them to grace your ship.  To treat ‘em right, and they’ll guide you safe.”It had seemed like a reasonable thing to believe.





	1. Prologue: The Souvenier

**Author's Note:**

> CW for graphic descriptions of worms and worm based injuries

Elias has made many mistakes in his considerably long life, but probably the worst one was giving Peter Lukas a key to his house. He’d done it many years ago, in his softer, foolish years, and has since come to regret that decision in a thousand tiny, irritating moments of home invasion. He would take it back if he could, but Elias had learned first hand that it was far easier to toss something into the perpetual void that was Peter Lukas than it was to fish it back out again. 

He could move, he supposed, but that felt an awful lot like admitting defeat.

Peter has a knack for getting into port late in the night, when any sensible person should be turned down for the evening. Usually, he’s at least a little drunk, and generally uninterested in Elias’ plans for a quiet night alone. Elias isn’t used to being surprised by things, and he doesn’t enjoy it. He has a tendency to keep an eye on the people around him, but Peter is, politely termed, a _rogue element_. Aggravatingly hard to see through that mist of his, and dangerously unpredictable. That is just one of the reasons Elias continues to play nice with him. Another reason is his own mind’s traitorous and frankly disappointing taste in men. 

Well, even Elias is only human. _Mostly_. At least the sex is good.

“Hello, my love.” Peter attempts a bow, but stumbles over his feet, his dark gray peacoat sliding messily down his shoulder. Elias can smell the rum on his breath from where he sits across the room, in bed, his glasses on the tip of his nose and a small book in his lap. He looks up at his unwelcome guest with a critical eye, glancing over his appearance quickly before sighing and shutting his book.

“Hello, Peter. It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it. And here I thought you’d finally drowned.”

Peter laughs. “How could I drown when I swore to return to your beautiful face?”

“I believe last we left off, you were swearing I’d die by your hand.”

“Is that so?” Peter pulls on the end of his salt-thick beard and tries to think. “I lose track of which we’re on.”

“You’re drunk,” says Elias, turning to place the book on his bedside table and folding his reading glasses neatly on top of it.

“True. But I was drunk when I said it so you’d think it’d help me remember.” Peter tries to readjust his coat and Elias notices he’s holding something. It's a long, cheap looking plastic garment bag, that bulges in a way that suggests there might be something inside. For all his money, Peter isn’t generally the type to fuss over his clothing.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Peter sing-songs, swinging the bag a little. It crinkles as it sways.

Elias sighs, “The bag. You have a bag. What’s in it?”

“Oh this?” Peter turns to look at the garment bag and Elias swears he must be playing dumb _just_ to annoy him. He manages to restrain himself from tapping his fingers impatiently against his thigh. It wouldn’t do to give him the satisfaction. 

“It’s a present, what do you call it…like a present you get from somewhere else for someone when you travel.” Peter mumbles his way through his words, twirling his finger in a searching kind of way.

“A souvenir.”

“Yes!” Peter smacks the front of the bag and it lets out a dull sound beneath the plastic. Whatever is inside is weirdly thick for clothing and it itches at Elias that he can’t see what’s inside with Peter holding it. He barely notices that Peter is still rambling on. 

“I thought it was rather odd that I’m always travelling so much and I’d never brought you back a souvenir.”

“Well,” Elias forces his voice to stay disinterested. “Perhaps that’s because you don’t actually go anywhere. There aren’t exactly gift shops in the middle of the ocean.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. Salaesa said it was from the ocean itself.”

Elias sits up straighter, looking back at the bag with newfound alarm. “It’s from Salaesa and you brought it into my house?”

“Relax, Elias, it’s perfectly safe.” Peter peers at the bag as if expecting it to move. “For now, at least.”

“Peter, what have you—”

“I felt so bad for all these lonely months you must spend without me,” Peter barges through Elias’ interjection, laying a dramatic hand across his chest. “I thought of what a sad figure you must cut, alone in your huge bed, waiting for me to return to you.”

Elias grits his teeth through the syrupy, tasteless melodrama.

“But as you know, my life, love, and lady is the sea and I must always return to it. Nay, I can never promise myself to one man, no matter how delectable he may be.”

“Can you _please_ get on with it.”

“So I brought you a pet,” Peter finishes, lamely, holding forward the plastic garment bag with a dramatic flourish.

Elias eyes the unmoving bag, the wire coat hanger it dangles by, the cheap department store logo emblazoned on the front. “You’re drunker than I thought.”

“No, no, Mikaele said…” Peter trails off as he starts pulling up on the plastic, revealing what lies beneath. A thick coat, beautiful really, a subtle blending of thousands of grays. The material looks soft and warm, but fleshy like blubber.

“Seal skin,” Elias says, voice flat.

Peter frowns at the coat in his hand, patting at it as if to check whether it’s real. “I could have sworn he’d said seal.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t honestly think you were carrying around a seal in a bag of that size.”

“Maybe a baby one?”

“Tell me you didn’t think a _baby seal_ was a present I would enjoy.”

“Fine, you caught me. Won it off Saleasa in a game of cards. And I’m not exactly a pet person so…” Peter sweeps an arm towards where Elias sits, unimpressed, in bed.

Elias sighs deeply and again his thoughts turn towards the house key in Peter’s possession and how he can possibly rectify that mistake. He’ll have to figure out something before someone genuinely gets murdered. Elias has never murdered anyone before, not the type to get his hands dirty, but sometimes, when he’s with Peter, he’s quite certain he has the capacity for it. 

“Well,” he relents, “I suppose it is a handsome coat.”

Peter’s eyes light up. “You like it?”

“Of all the souvenirs you’ve ever gotten me, I’d have to say it’s the best.”

Peter is either too drunk to remember his lack of past gifts or doesn’t care. He strides over to the bed and lays the heavy coat on top of the quilt laid over Elias’ legs.

“There you are, my dear. No thanks necessary.” Peter hangs over Elias, expectantly waiting for thanks.

“My most gracious thanks, Peter,” Elias says, indulgently, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Peter’s cheek before he gets it in his head to kiss Elias on the lips with that god awful liquor breath. 

Elias rests a hand on the coat and it’s strangely warm to the touch. It sparks something in the back of his mind. Mikaele Salaesa is not the type to be peddling around meaningless coats. It’d be best to put this somewhere safe, Elias decides, and keep an eye on it for any unwelcome developments.

A week passes, though, and nothing comes of it. Elias has plenty to keep him busy, and between Peter being ashore for a while, and staying ahead of Gertrude’s increasingly traitorous schemes and exploits, he hardly has time to think about the coat at all. It fades from a distraction to a curiosity to simply forgotten in favor of paperwork and planning.

That is, until the day his paperwork is interrupted by his office door slamming open. Until today, when a strange man barges in, dark skinned and scarred, with oddly sharp teeth and ill-fitting clothes. His eyes are dark, almost all pupil, or at least black enough to be. His hair reminds Elias of something he can’t put his finger on, a thousand subtle shades of black and gray, and his eyes burn with a ferocity that takes Elias’ breath away. His clothing is old and tattered and his nails are dirt caked. Even from across the room and perfectly dry, he smells vaguely of salt water.

“Where is it?” The man snarls, pinning Elias with his gaze. “Where. Is. My. _Skin_.”


	2. Chapter One: Child of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims is having a very bad week.

Jonathan Sims is having a very bad week. The worst part is, there is no one to blame but himself. At so many points he could have stopped and thought about the lessons his grandmother had drilled into him, or the stories he'd heard about what befell his late mother, and realized he was making a tragic mistake. But he'd just wanted to know what it was like, being among humans. It seemed like such a small thing at the time. So few people recognize him for what he is, as selkies aren't exactly commonplace, and most of the world tends to dismiss them as myths. Sometimes, if he swims near enough to the surface, he'll get some shocked gasps. Faces behind sunglasses leaning over railings excitedly exclaiming, '_it's a seal_'!

But they were never actually talking to  _ him. _

__

So when the man with the long dark hair looks down from the prow and asks if he would like to come aboard and rest awhile, maybe share in some of the catch of the day, it is enough to peak Jon's interest. His eyes are dark and soft, and he has broad sloping shoulders leading down to a heavyset frame hiding a sailors' muscles. It is hard not to find him at least a little attractive. Not to mention the thick black whorls of complex tattoos that wind their way down his arms and peek out from the neckline of his shirt. Jon has never seen a tattoo up close. He wants to study it, inspect the lines and understand the  _ whys  _ and  _ hows. _

__

"My grandmother taught me about selkies," says the tattooed man. "Said its good luck for them to grace your ship. To treat 'em right, and they'll guide you safe."

__

It seemed like a reasonable thing to believe.

__

So Jon peels his skin from his shoulders, settles his coat around himself, climbs the thick anchor line, and subjects himself to the stares of the scattered deck hands. The tattooed man smiles, ruffles Jon's wet hair, and starts calling orders to bring clothes and fish and drinking water. It all makes Jon feel very important and mystical. It's an easy enough role to slip into, he puffs out his chest out a little, tips his chin up, and catches the eyes of the sailors through the tangle of his dark hair, staring until they scurry away.

__

Through it all, he keeps glancing back at the man's arms, tracing the patterns and wondering how it continues beyond the point it disappears into his sleeves. He doesn't mean to stare, but they are mesmerizing, and when the man catches him he simply lets out a deep belly laugh.

__

"You like patterns, eh? Stay here, fair one, I’ve got something you'll enjoy."

__

The tattooed man heads off below decks, leaving Jon trying to puzzle out if he'd meant fair like fae or fair like...like what humans meant. He wonders how he looks to these humans, with his matted hair and salt-scoured skin. Suddenly, the deck of the ship feels oppressive. Everywhere he turns he feels eyes on him. He hears the murmur of whispers, and feels exposed. He has a sudden impulse to turn and dive back into the dark water where no one can look at him again.

__

If only he'd listened to his gut.

__

"There y'are." Jon snaps his head up to see the tattooed man smiling broadly, revealing crooked rows of yellowing teeth. He holds out a small wooden box, inscribed with hundreds of strange criss-crossing lines, like a fractal. "It's a puzzle box. If you move the pieces, it opens."

__

He should have run when he felt all the crew members shifting subtly away from him and that damned box. He should  _ never _ have taken it. He should never have  _ trusted _ a human. But it entranced him, those lines, and he’d wanted nothing more than to solve whatever riddle they contained. So he sits down on the deck, puzzle box in hand, and begins to shift and turn and slide until the lines seem to rearrange themselves into a single, perfect web.

__

And then he wakes up on a beach. 

__

The sun is gone. He must have been out for at least a few hours, but for all he knows, it could have been days. Everything about Jon aches, especially his head, and his muscles protest as he pushes himself to sitting. His borrowed clothes are wrinkled and full of sand. It is awful and scratchy in a way it has never been before. 

__

When Jon stares out at the cold waves pressing into the shore, he realizes he has no idea where he is. An awful thought crosses his mind, and he reaches behind his shoulders and finds nothing. His skin is  _ gone. _

__

The dread freezes him, ice cold in the bottom of his stomach. Jon finds he doesn't even have the energy to panic. His skin isn't lost, he knows somehow. It hasn’t sunk accidentally to the bottom of the ocean. It has been  _ stolen. _ A human has his coat. That man, with the tattoos and the soft, braided hair. He'd tricked him. He'd  _ tricked _ him!

__

Jon crawls to his feet and screams at the sea, rage and fear tearing at his insides. He kicks at the sand and bares his teeth at the stars and tears at the shirt that horrid liar had given him. And then finally, exhausted, he falls silent, panting. The sea that should have welcomed him regards him coldly. He can't go back, not like this. His home, the only home he's ever known, has been torn from him by a monster in the shape of a man. He is trapped. 

__

He  _ needs _ to get his skin back. 

__

Jon looks around and his heart jumps into his throat when he sees docks not too far away, the moonlight catching on the edges of many ships. Find the ship, and he will find the man. Jon starts running along the beach, heedless of the rocks that tear at the soles of his bare feet. When he reaches the docks, he goes from boat to boat, trying to remember what it had been called. He pushes down the little voice that says he might not have docked here, that he might already be gone.

__

"Hey!" Calls a voice. Jon turns to see a youngish man, with an ugly wispy beard on the tip of his chin and a weathered look to his face, leaning against a pole. "You're the...the thing! From the water."

__

Jon brushes aside the use of the word  _ thing _ and fixes the man with his coldest glare. "Where is your captain?"

__

"Ex-captain. Smuggling and stealing is one thing, but I didn't sign up for what we did to you."

__

"Well,  _ thank you, _ " Jon snarls, "for so nobly standing there and watching them  _ steal my pelt." _

__

The man frowns. "Listen, you don't cross Salaesa. Good deeds ain't worth shit if I get my ass tossed overboard too."

__

_ Salaesa. _ Jon tastes the name in his mouth, as if he could glean some knowledge from it, "That's who has my coat."

__

"Not...quite. He gave it away."

__

"He gave it away?" Jon is horrified, breath knocked out of his chest.

__

"More like lost it. In a bet, to some other sea captain. I didn't recognize him, but he went off that way with it." The man thrusts a thumb backwards towards the city. "And he was saying something about making Bouchard very happy."

__

_ Bouchard. _ Jon flicks a last warning glance to the sailor who is watching him curiously, if nervously, and then turns and marches into the night.

__

It takes Jon a whole day of wandering before someone finally lets him borrow what they call a 'phone book'. Then several more to hunt down each address associated with the five different Bouchards listed. Human streets are confusing and twisting, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to what goes where. 

__

He does his best to ignore the stares. Jon knows his clothes are only deteriorating further from the nights he’s spending sleeping in alleyways. His feet are beaten bloody, and his attempt to bathe in what he'd assumed was a public street pool had brought him far too much unwanted attention. By the time he reaches the fifth house, he is exhausted, sick from living off rats and garbage, and beyond desperate to go home.

__

He looks up at the snug little townhouse belonging to a Mr. Elias Bouchard, still just as unsure of what he is looking for as he had been at the first four. He walks up to the door and knocks. No one answers.

__

Jon wants to cry. 

__

But crying won't get him any closer to his skin. He leans forward, resting his head against the wooden door, and closes his eyes. If only he could just know where it is. If only he could just want it badly enough. Jon is sure no one had ever wanted anything like he wants to find this Bouchard in this very moment. 

__

He regrets not listening to his grandmother. He regrets ever leaving the ocean. He swears to anything that’s listening that he will never trust a human ever again if he could just find his skin and go home and leave this whole mess behind him.

__

Something prickles at him. A tingle at the base of his skull. Jon stands up, moves away from the door, and walks over to the mailbox. He pulls open the little door and reaches inside, grabbing at the small pile of letters. Jon isn't sure what he is looking for, but he’s sure he will know when he finds it. 

__

_ There. _ A letter addressed to this Elias Bouchard, and it has his title appended: Head of the Magnus Institute. 

__

Jon drops the mail and takes off running. He has no idea how or why, but with each step he only grows in certainty. It has to be some kind of sixth sense. His skin is part of him after all, intrinsically linked. It is only logical that he should know where it is. And he knows, deep in his bones, it is there. At the Magnus Institute, with Elias Bouchard.

__

Jon lets out a laugh as he sprints down the street. Finally this will be over,  _ finally _ he will be free.

__

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in folks, you're in for a ride now! It'll be long, filled with angst and joys, ups and downs. We do guarantee a happy ending though. 
> 
> But, no seriously, thank you all for the comments and kudos. They've been really awesome and uplifting to read and do feed us. Hopefully you enjoy the rest just as much!
> 
> We're planning to have a regular upload schedule of every tuesday. Keep an eye out!
> 
> You can find us at:
> 
> Twodrunkencelestials (me)
> 
> And 
> 
> Apatheticbutterflies (my wonderful co-author)
> 
> Feel free to come chat! About this, about the Magnus Archives, or whatever else!


	3. Tea With Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets the mysterious Elias. Demands are made. Tea is had.

“Where _is_ it? Where. Is. My. _Skin_.”

Elias Bouchard doesn’t look at all like Jon pictured him. Too young maybe, or possibly too old. He's handsome, but in a plain way. He just looks more unremarkable than anything else. The man is nothing like the overly dramatic villain Jon had been building up in his head over the past days of desperation. He’s just a frail human behind a wide oak desk.

His eyes, though, are intense. Like the surface of the ocean lit by the sun. They're simultaneously painful to look at, and impossible to look away from. It's a bit hypnotizing.

“You know in England it’s considered polite to knock,” Elias says.

“I don’t _care_. You’re Elias Bouchard.”

Elias folds his hands neatly on the desk before him, and smiles as if nothing is out of sorts. “I am indeed. Can I help you?”

“I told you already,” Jon bares his teeth and snarls, but Elias doesn’t react. If anything, his eyes grow just a bit warmer. “I’m looking for my skin. _You_ have it. Give it to me.”

“How about you take a seat?” Elias’ eyes scan Jon up and down, and he feels oddly self conscious of his torn and dirty clothes. “You look like you could do with a load off. And maybe a cup of tea? I could have my assistant bring one in for you.”

“What I need is my _skin_.” Jon takes a step forward, puffing out his chest to try and seem as intimidating as possible. “Give it to me _now_.”

Elias’ pleasant gaze hardens just a bit and he purses his lips in disappointment. “I could have you thrown out of this office for trespassing and barred from the grounds forever. Or you could take a seat, speak with me like a civilized person, and help me understand what you need from me.” He spreads his hands magnanimously on his desk. “I only want to help you.”

Jon fidgets, and eyes the chair suspiciously. He doesn’t want to sit down, it feels too vulnerable, like he’s giving up a path of escape. But really, this Elias doesn’t seem very threatening. How fast could a human even get around a desk like that to attack him? And he’d left the door open behind him, Jon glances over his shoulder and stares out into the hallway, considering the option to just leave. 

But where would that get him? He'd be back on the streets and still just as skinless. Jon looks back at Elias and slowly steps forward until he can sink into the thin, wire chair. He draws his shoulders up to his ears defensively, but Elias’ warm smile puts him somewhat at ease, and he hesitantly nods.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind something to drink,” he admits. Elias seems delighted and pushes a button to speak with his assistant. Jon relaxes a little and reminds himself that Elias didn’t actually take his skin, it was given to him as a present. Perhaps he doesn’t even know what he has. Perhaps he doesn’t even want it. It’s doubtful Elias is aware that his brand new coat comes with a selkie attached. 

“Now,” Elias turns back to face Jon. “I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You know my name, although I’m not sure how, but I don’t know yours.”

“I’m, ah, Jon. Jonathan Sims.” Jon looks down, fiddling with his hands nervously. He’s never sat and had a conversation with a human before. It’s strangely intense. Maybe that’s just Elias and his sunspot eyes. “I found your address in a book, and then I looked through your mail. Sorry about that. But it’s important.”

“Sims, is it?” Elias’ eyes glint oddly. “That’s quite alright. You certainly seem to be in a rather desperate way. How can I help you?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have recently received a seal skin coat.” Jon can’t stop himself from leaning forward, eagerly. “As a present, perhaps?”

Elias’ mouth opens in a perfect expression of shock. “I did, in fact. But how did you know that?”

“Someone working on the boat heard the man who took the coat say _Bouchard_.” Jon waves a hand in the air to imply time passing. “So I tracked you down. Now that coat—”

“Yes, but how did you know I was the right Bouchard?” Elias pushes, placing a hand flat against his desk. 

“I just _knew_! I-It’s not important!” Jon curls his hands in the fabric of his pants and does his best to hold in his frustration. Don’t attack the man trying to help you. Don’t attack the man trying to _help you_. “Can we please focus on the—” 

Jon is cut off as the door creaks wider open. The young woman Jon had blown past on his way to Elias’ office pushes her way in with a tray full of delicate porcelain tea cups and small pitchers of milk. There’s even a crystal sugar bowl. She sets it down on Elias’ desk and begins habitually fixing tea in what must be the way Elias takes it. One lump of sugar, the barest splash of milk. She stirs it neatly with a practiced hand. 

“Ah, thank you, Rosie,” Elias says, turning entirely away from Jon. He accepts his teacup, fingers curling elegantly around the thin handle. Jon knows he doesn’t belong in this office with his coarse, saltwater hair and calloused fingers. Briefly, he wonders why Rosie even let him walk in here.

“How do you take your tea, Jon?” Elias asks. Jon has never had tea before. He eyes the tray desperately, trying to formulate a reasonable answer. 

“T-three, um, three sugars.”

“Just how I used to drink it,” Elias says, and whether or not it’s true Jon is flushed with gratitude. Rosie mixes up his tea and gives him a genuine smile when she hands him his cup, and Jon feels more comfortable still. His grandmother was wrong, there are kind humans in this world. The tea is too bitter, but he swallows it down, enjoying the warmth that spreads behind his ribs.

After Rosie leaves, taking the tray with her, Elias sets down his cup and sighs. “You were saying, Jon?”

Jon blinks a bit. This is the second time Elias has said his name. It feels different on a human tongue, on land, and Elias has a voice like rushing waves. Jon fancies he likes the sound of his name in Elias’ mouth. “That coat, it’s mine. I need it back.”

“Is that so?” Elias takes a long sip of his tea, not breaking eye contact. “A family heirloom?”

“Not...exactly? It’s a part of me. I…” Jon trails off, but then regains his courage and continues. “I’m not actually _human_.”

Elias lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “Yes Jon, I’d gathered. You don’t look quite human, though perhaps it’s just the stress.”

Jon places a hand on his face, pressing into the soft skin of his cheek. It has been a hard few days.

“I am pleased to learn that selkies are real.”

Jon starts, nearly dropping his tea cup in surprise. “You _knew_?”

“I gathered. I’ve read many things and heard many stories. You’re the first I’ve had the pleasure of beholding, however. You’re as beautiful as the legends say.”

Jon feels his cheeks grow hot. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Jon knows his skin is rough and scarred from a lifetime of hard living and the occasional run-in with other monsters. He is covered in pock-marks and long scratches and he knows enough to know that's far from what might be considered beautiful.

Elias’ mouth quirks in a smile. “Well, perhaps after a bath. You do look a little worse for wear.”

“Without my skin I can’t return to the sea.” Jon says, and lets a little bit of vulnerability show through, hunching down in his chair. “I don’t know how to live out here. It's…maddening, so strange and busy, all of it.”

“You poor, poor thing.”

Jon looks up as Elias rises from his chair. He wants to react to his 'thing' comment, but the words stick in his throat. Elias' eyes are somehow even more intense than before, and Jon finds himself shifting nervously beneath them. It’s as though they’re seeing more than he has to give them. Elias’ smile is just as warm as ever and Jon tries to convince himself to relax. Elias strides around the desk and pats Jon on the head, scratching his fingers into his scalp.

“Such a shame to see such a lovely creature in a state like this.”

Embarrassment wells up in Jon’s throat and he instinctively tries to jerk away from Elias’ hand, but before he can it vanishes from his head.

“Come on, then.” Elias begins heading for the door, leaving Jon to scramble to his feet in his wake. “Your skin is at my house. Let’s go.”

Jon’s eyes widen and his heart soars. His grandmother didn’t know what she was talking about at all. There may be some awful humans, but Elias Bouchard is a wonderful person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing Elias and I have in common: we can't pass up the chance for situational irony.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! You can find us on Tumblr, I'm @apatheticbutterflies and she's @twodrunkencelestials. Come talk to us about the Magnus Archives, we're fun and post writing sometimes!! In fact there's some bonus selkie!jon content floating around both our blogs if you've been digging it here. 
> 
> See you next Tuesday!


	4. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tour, a meal, and a shower.

Considering that Jon has never been in a car before, Elias is remarkably patient with him. He talks him down from shredding the bonds that tie him to the seat, showing him the button he can push if he wants to be free, and helps him figure out how to open the window so he feels a little less trapped. He doesn’t even laugh when Jon nearly jumps out of his seat at the sound of the engine turning over. Everything is loud and cramped and sudden. Jon feels like a cup filled to the brim with emotions, and every little thing is a drop threatening to spill him over the sides.

The drive to Elias’ house is nerve wracking, Jon grips at the seat with white-knuckled fists every time the car rumbles or hits a bump. He tries to be brave, tries to school his face into something calm, something that isn’t the expression of a caged and nervous animal, but he isn’t sure he quite succeeds. Thankfully, Elias keeps his eyes firmly on the road. Being around cars had been even worse when Jon was first wandering through the city, too loud and endlessly dangerous. At least on the inside no one is shouting at him for running in front of them across roads. In here, he only has to be with Elias. Jon much prefers it this way.

They arrive soon enough. Elias steps out and goes around to open the car door. He is smiling in that kindly way again, and holding his hand out. Jon takes it, and the gentle warmth that spreads between them is soothing after so many unfriendly days. 

Being inside the house is even nicer. It’s large, and well-maintained. Elias gives him a tour, taking him from room to room, naming their uses, and the styles they're decorated in. His host seems pleased to show him around, trying to make him feel welcome, and Jon is grateful that Elias has taken it upon himself to explain things so that Jon doesn’t have to embarrass himself with a string of basic questions. He doesn’t want Elias to know he’s lived so long in ignorance of what human life is like. 

But nothing on the tour captures Jon like the library. Elias is still talking, but Jon is far away, staring in awe at the rows and rows of shelves packed with books, at the neat piles on the desk and the loveseat, even stacked on the floor. Jon has never seen so many books in his life. He wants to read them all, know everything contained in those countless pages. His grandmother had taught him to read with what few books they could get their hands on, ones washed up or found on lost ships. He'd loved every single one, and that longing for more had made a home in his chest right alongside his love for the sea. 

Elias notices his hesitation at leaving the library when they're heading to the next room. He offers a pleasant little smile and says, "we can come back here after I've given you the full tour. Maybe after you eat something and clean up a bit you can take a look. Perhaps in exchange, you could share some stories of your own with me?" 

Jon hesitates, then nods. He's...the past few days have been  _ awful. _ He wants to go home more than anything, of course he does, but he’s desperately hungry and he’s not about to turn down food freely offered. Besides, it’s a good idea to be closer to full strength for his return home, so food is a necessity. The land is  _ dangerous _ , but the ocean is more so, and he wants to be prepared. And if he sticks around a little longer to read some books, well, maybe it will make the whole miserable trip worth it.

The rest of the tour goes smoothly. Jon knows he'd been in a house before his grandmother rescued him, but truthfully, he really doesn't remember much of that time. He was only a child after all. This house, though, is nothing like his recollections. It’s much grander than the ghost in his memory. 

When they're back in the kitchen, Elias motions for Jon to sit in a chair by the center island while he bustles around, peeking into cupboards and the fridge and freezer. 

"What sorts of foods do you enjoy, Jon?" Elias studies him, his smile not enough to allay the intensity of his eyes.

"Meat.” Jon licks his teeth. “Fish." 

Elias seems to consider the answer and then nods and says, "I may have something you can eat then. In the meantime, do you want some more tea? Or something else to drink?"

"Tea," the selkie says quickly, remembering the warmth in his chest it brought, "with more sugar this time." 

"Very well." 

Watching Elias move around the kitchen, is fascinating. The surety with which he makes himself and Jon another drink, serves it with a charming little quirk of his lips and an 'enjoy'. It's better this time, not so bitter.

Elias resumes his cooking, moving just as efficiently as he pulls out what smells like fish and tosses it in a pan with a few simple things like salt and pepper.

"No need to upset your stomach after what you've been eating the last few days," Elias explains, and it makes Jon blush a little, ashamed. He had been doing what he needed to survive. That's all that matters. 

It smells good, despite Jon preferring it raw. Elias is probably right. He's not entirely sure how sensitive he is to non-cooked food right now. As a seal, there’s no point in cooking, but humans always seem to cook their food. Perhaps it makes it better too?

He's not paying particular attention, too focused on studying other parts of the kitchen, when Elias puts a plate down in front of him with a few pieces of the fish and some slices of something orange.

"And these are?" Jon pokes at one. He picks it up with his fingers and sniffs at it experimentally. The smell is...weird.

Elias seems amused. "Carrots. Cooked just enough to be soft and good for a stomach unused to them." He leaves to fetch a plate for himself, and sits down across from Jon. Jon feels his eyes on him as he takes his first cautious bite.

They're certainly not terrible. They're nothing like anything Jon's ever had before. The texture is okay, and so is the taste; they're both just  _ weird. _ The fish is better, Jon decides, after the first bite. A little salty and savoury. It's not the texture he's used to either, but it's actually enjoyable. He eats it with the fervor of a starving man, with no consideration to his host. 

Elias doesn't seen insulted though, if the strange hint of smugness Jon catches on his face in between bites means anything. 

Jon is done by the time Elias is only halfway through his. Elias catches him eyeing up his plate and pushes it across the table to him.

"Here. You look like you need it more than I do.”

Jon digs his fingers in and begins shovelling it gratefully into his mouth. He’s vaguely aware of Elias watching him fondly as he does so, but it takes a backseat to his desperation to fill his growling stomach. When he finishes the fish, he slides his fingers through the sauce and pops them into his mouth, trying to savor each last little bit.

“I’ve never felt so gratified as a chef,” Elias says, his voice full of humor.

“Well, it’s better than garbage.”

“Thank you, Jonathan. You’re too kind.” Elias quirks his lips, the amusement warming his features even more. “Tell me, am I the first human you’ve ever interacted with?”

“Of course I’ve  _ met _ humans,” Jon bristles, offended, “I’ve been up on land, islands and such. And my grandmother and I drag them into the water sometimes. It requires  _ some _ amount of interaction.”

“Is that a habit of yours? Drowning humans?”

Jon looks startled and guilty, he ducks his head a bit, tucking his lower lip over his teeth. “I didn’t mean you.”

Elias chuckles and inclines his head. “I appreciate that, but I wasn’t really worried. I can take care of myself.”

Jon makes a thoughtful noise and pops another finger into his mouth, licking off the sauce and grease. “I don’t make a habit of it. Human’s tasty and good for you, but troublesome to hunt. I have to eat some every now and then, though, to maintain my form.” Jon shakes his head demonstratively, tangled hair bouncing. “Selkie meat too.”

Elias leans forward across the table, cushioning his chin in his hands.  _ “Fascinating. _ I have read some things about your kind, but most of it is unsubstantiated. It’s very rare to get a chance to sit down and learn firsthand.”

Jon looks down at his plate, fidgeting under the scrutiny. “I’ve never had a proper conversation with a human before. There was my father, but I don’t really remember him at all. I was just a pup when my grandmother took me, but I know he was  _ horrible. _ He stole my mother. That’s what humans  _ do, _ when they find us. They take our skins and they use us like animals.”

Jon feels an old anger building in his chest, and jumps as his grip on the side of his plate tightens too far and it cracks down the center. A long scratch opens in his palm and blood slides down to mix with the sauce. Jon rises to his feet in panic and grabs the two pieces of the plate, helplessly trying to push them back together. Elias stands as well and reaches across the table to lay a calming hand on Jon’s wrist.

“It’s alright, Jon. Let me clean it up.” Elias gently pries the broken pieces of plate out of Jon’s grasp and puts them on the table. He walks around to stand next to Jon, sliding his hands down to pull Jon’s injured palm towards him. Jon hisses in slight pain as Elias tilts the wound back and forth to examine the cut. “It looks clean, so that’s good.”

“I broke your plate.”

“I have plenty of plates,” Elias says with a toss of his head. “I only have one selkie.”

Jon pales, swallows, and pulls his hand sharply back to cradle it into his chest. He barely holds back a flash of teeth. “Maybe I should be going.”

“Of course.” Elias spreads his hands, smiling apologetically. “But at least let me bandage your hand? I would feel like a failure of a host if I let you go bleeding back into the sea.”

“That’s…” Jon furrows his brow. He does still feel weak, and he doesn’t relish going back into the ocean stinking of blood. “Very well. It shouldn’t take very long, I imagine.”

“Not at all,” says Elias and he sweeps an arm to gesture Jon back upstairs. Jon hesitates for only a moment, bouncing on the balls of his feet, before he acquiesces. Elias takes him into the bathroom and sits him down on the edge of a large porcelain bathtub while he rifles through the cabinet under his sink. Jon absentmindedly begins to lick up the trails of blood seeping down his arm without taking his eyes off Elias. 

“I don’t get a lot of use out of this first aid kit,” Elias keeps up a steady stream of genial chattering, “but I always knew it would be useful to keep around.” 

Elias pulls out a dusty white box and brushes it off a bit, looking pleased with himself. He sits on the edge of the tub next to Jon and holds out his hand expectantly until Jon lays his injured palm in his upturned grasp. Jon watches, almost entranced, as Elias’ fingers move efficiently, disinfecting and cleaning and bandaging. It stings, but it also feels nice, the warmth of Elias’ hands cradling his own. They’re surprisingly smooth and gentle. He stares at the top of Elias’ head, bent over in concentration.

“There we are. Good as new.” Elias pats Jon’s hand and looks up, meeting his gaze with a small grin. Jon flushes a bit and ducks his head, cradling his hand to his chest again. He can taste his own blood on his teeth. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, from what I know about selkies, I believe that I am currently your temporary husband. So it’s my job to take care of you.” This time, Jon picks up on the gentle humor in Elias’ voice and offers him a tentative smile. “And speaking of, you’re welcome to use my shower or tub to clean yourself up. You look a mess.”

Elias licks his thumb and pulls it across Jon’s cheek, wiping away at some of the grime. It pours something warm into a hollow space between his ribs that Jon had never noticed before. It almost comes as a surprise to him when he nods. The dirt is heavy on his skin. It would be nice to be clean again. He feels even better about his decision when he sees Elias’ face light up with genuine pleasure.

“Fantastic. Let me fetch you a towel, then, and a change of clothes. The rags you’re wearing can be thrown straight into the trash. Feel free to take your time and use anything you like.”

It takes a while for Jon to puzzle out what each of the knobs do, but Elias is true to his word and doesn’t knock once or try to hurry him up. He simply leaves a pile of soft white towels and a folded set of clothes on the edge of the sink and then leaves him be. It feels amazing to finally abandon the shredded, stiff clothing he’s been wearing for days and sit beneath the pounding cold water. He closes his eyes and basks in it and imagines he can smell the ocean in the antiseptic nothing of Elias’ bathroom.

He also greatly enjoys the fluffy feeling of the towels on his bare skin. He lays them out on the floor and rolls around, dragging his wet hair back and forth.

Finally he takes the clothes and reluctantly dresses himself. To his surprise, the clothing is soft and smooth and comfortable. He fumbles to button the shirt, and thinks that the dull gray of the silky material reminds him a bit of his skin. He leaves the towels behind on the floor and pushes open the door to Elias’ bedroom, looking around for his host. When he doesn’t see him, he takes a few steps into the room and calls out.

“Elias?”


	5. Fact and Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias makes a proposition. Jon chooses a Path.

“Elias?” Jon calls out, but the bedroom appears to be empty. From down the hall, he can just barely hear the muffled sounds of small objects being moved around. Finding himself seemingly alone, Jon takes a furtive step forward and presses his hand into the puffy white quilt folded over the foot of the bed. He can’t help the childlike grin that spreads across his face. He’s never touched anything so soft before. Humans really have the best ideas. He’s debating over whether or not to throw himself down face-first onto it just to see how it feels when Elias calls back from the other room.

“I’m in the library.” Jon freezes guiltily, as if he’d been caught, and hurries down the hall towards the library. Elias is there, arranging a blanket over the loveseat. He turns over his shoulder and smiles when he sees Jon enter. “Ah, now that is much better.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m fixing you a place to sleep. It’s far too late for me to turn you out on the street now.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s been days since I’ve seen the sea. I just want to go home.” 

“In the middle of the night?” Elias tuts. “Of course you’re welcome to do as you please, but I would feel terrible not personally making sure you get back safely. Besides, you haven’t even had a chance to look through any of these books.”

That stops Jon in his tracks. His eyes flit hungrily over the shelves and shelves of books he’s never seen before. More books than he might ever see for the rest of his life. He rolls his lip back and forth between his teeth. “...Fine. One night.”

Elias smiles. “Go on and pick something then, and I’ll brush your hair. I’d love to see what it looks like without those dreadful tangles.”

Jon can’t stop himself from letting out a panicked noise, and he grabs for his hair instinctively. He drops his head to the side and holds the hair in front of his face like a shield, trying to keep Elias from seeing the heat that is rising in his cheeks. He can feel Elias’ gaze on him still, concerned and curious, and Jon tries to take a deep breath and stop his shoulders from shaking.

“Jon? Are you alright?” Jon hears Elias take a step forward and he stumbles away like a startled bird, holding his hands up between them to keep Elias from getting closer.

“No!” Elias blinks, a bit taken aback at the violence of his tone, and Jon waves his hands, trying to get his emotions under control. “I-I mean, yes, I mean...you don’t have to. I can do it.”

Elias tries to catch his eye, but Jon slides his gaze away. Heat still buzzes through his face, and he can’t help but feel dissected, like Elias is sifting through his soul. “Of course,” Elias answers, after a long silent moment. His voice is calm, collected, and betrays nothing. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

Guilt rushes in to replace the embarrassment and Jon’s stomach drops. Elias is only trying to help him. That's why Jon is _here_. He can’t expect a human to just _know_ these things. Elias' face is the perfect picture of gentle and concerned. He hadn’t meant it. He couldn't have _known_ what it meant. Elias takes another step forward, and Jon quickly steps away.

"N-no. No, sorry, I'm sorry I snapped at you. Just...just _don’t touch_ my hair." A bit of venom sneaks into Jon’s voice despite his best efforts and he tucks his head down, trying to undercut his aggression. He drops, or tries to, his defensive stance further and clutches at his arms, wounded hand creeping up to brush at his long, still tangled hair. After an awkward pause he finishes, lamely. “Please.” 

Elias holds up his hands in a show of good faith and backs away, sitting down on the loveseat across the room. Still flushed and ashamed, Jon creeps to a stuffed armchair several feet away and curls up in it. All of his nerves are thrumming, and he forces himself to tuck his legs beneath him like he’s comfortable and not thinking about running for the hills. He takes a deep breath and gathers his words to explain properly, although he refuses to meet Elias’ searching gaze. 

"It's...it is a very _intimate_ thing to touch a selkie's hair. We’re much more vulnerable in human form so it’s a show of trust. Reserved for family and…” Jon clears his throat. “And other..._close_ people."

Jon twists a strand of his hair over and over in his fingers, peeking up at Elias to try and judge his reaction. The weight of Elias’ full attention lands like a heavy blanket. It's soft, comforting. 

"I'm sorry, Jon," he apologises, "I didn't realise how it might upset you, or what it meant." His expression shifts to thoughtful, and he seems to realize something. "I'm sorry for earlier today too. Forgive me?"

The words unknot something in Jon's chest and he relaxes a bit, the anxious twirling of his hair slowing to just holding the strand. He nods, running the tip of his tongue along the bottom of his teeth. 

"You can," Jon clears his throat again, “you can watch, though. If you want.”

Jon likes his hair, and when he thinks about it, he finds he does want Elias to see. He wants to impress the human, while he's in his house. Elias’ gaze on him is intense, and Jon feels himself get a little dizzy with the weight of it. He can’t help but wonder how much _more_ his touch would be. Jon's heart flutters at the thought of Elias’ careful, clever fingers brushing through his hair. Softly scratching, tugging at tangles, sliding down the back of his neck. Jon shakes his head. It's a foolish thought. They haven't known each other long enough for Jon to want that. What would his grandmother think, seeing him acting like this for some human? 

Jon refocuses on his task. He gently pulls on a strand of hair and begins to brush his fingers through the tangled curls, focusing on pulling out the knots that have already appeared, moving gradually around his head. He can feel Elias' gaze, risks glancing up, and sees a strange smile on the other man's face. Jon's own colours, and he drops his attention back to his work. 

He works through each of his curls one by one, twisting them and making them more defined, just as his grandmother taught him. 

_"It'll lure our prey in,"_ she'd whispered, teeth fierce and bright and sharp in her human form, _"this is how we catch humans. They cannot resist beauty, especially if it's wild. They seek to tame, but we will drag them to the depths screaming, my boy."_

Elias hasn't said a word, just watched in an oddly still silence. It is the kind of patience found only in predators, or the most foolish of prey. Jon doesn't know which way to take it, his nerves still fighting with his urge to trust. He pushes the unease down and redoubles his efforts, putting on a deliberate show. Several minutes pass quietly before all his hair is done, properly curled and fae-like in its disorderly order. 

Jon looks over at Elias to gauge his reaction, and sees Elias digging his fingers into the meat of his thighs. For a moment, Jon thinks he sees a greedy glint in his eyes, but it vanishes before he can process it. 

"_Beautiful,_" Elias breathes, a compliment that makes Jon drop his eyes again. "It's no wonder the stories speak so highly of your kind."

"Thank you," Jon murmurs. Part of him doesn't fully believe Elias, but the words sound sincere. Jon's eyes drift a little, towards the books, the gnawing hunger in his heart suddenly wanting to eat those word-infested pages right up. Elias notices, and smiles again. 

"Since you seem so eager to start some reading, how about a proposition. You read this book," Elias picks up a book lying beside him on the loveseat entitled _Folktales of the Sea_ and gives it a little shake, "and you tell me where they are wrong about your kind. I want to take full advantage of your knowledge while I have you here. You are a treasure trove, after all."

Jon's eyes snap between the book and Elias and he nods. Elias holds the book up and looks at him meaningfully, forcing Jon to stand awkwardly and cross the room to take it from him. He settles down on the loveseat beside Elias, deliberately leaving space between them. He's still cautious, but the call of the book is greater than that of his anxiety. He runs his hands lovingly over the cover, enjoying the smooth give of the thick stock, and eases it open, the thrill of discovery running down his spine. On the inside cover, in a sprawling cursive, it says _For my Elias_.

"Here," Elias says. Their hands brush for a moment as he reaches across and flips the book to a section marked with a light blue tab sticking out the top. "Why don't you start there. That's the section on selkies." 

Jon wants to grumble, but he doesn't. He can always return to the earlier sections after Elias has gone to bed. He really has no intention of sleeping tonight, not with all these books around. He nods instead, and begins to read. 

Elias has picked up his own book, another one on folktales, and sinks quietly into it. Jon is thankful he's allowed to read in silence, the only distraction the slight body heat of the human beside him. It's almost comforting.

He's not far into one of the stories before he can’t hold back a laugh, a sound a little like a bark, and then a sigh. His tone is _scornful_. "Crying seven tears into the ocean to summon us? Really? The most that will do is get you _eaten_. If we even notice in the first place." 

Elias catches Jon's eye and smirks. "Now how would a story like that get started, Jon?"

Jon gives him a toothy grin in response, considering the idea. It reminds Jon of an old story his grandmother told him of her impetuous youth. "Well, the selkie was either _conveniently_ nearby, or had been hunting that person for a while. If it was someone who had trapped them, then I have no doubt they were waiting for the right chance to strike."

Jon smiles, and it's fond, with a vicious edge. Elias seems to sense that Jon has a story, so he sets his book aside and gives a little 'go on' sort of wave. 

"My grandmother, one of the oldest selkies still living," Jon lifts up his chin a bit, particularly proud of his lineage, "likes to hunt in a particularly _awful_ way. She lures in foolish fishermen or their lonely wives, converses with them and gets to know them, lets them pine and pine away for her, and then just _disappears_ one day. When they finally cry into the ocean, _begging_ for her return, she comes back to them. They cry into her arms and she drags them under, promising them peace beneath the waves, until they drown in water and teeth. She always says that the fear they’d been left forever makes the meat taste better."

Jon's smile drops into something solemn. 

"She hadn’t always given herself to the Path of Abandoned. Not until after her husband. A fisherman. She left the sea to be with him willingly, but after the birth of my mother, he became enraged at her insistence that the child gain her skin. They argued over his refusal to let her pass on her gift, and he let it spill to some townsfolk what she was. So they turned on her. In the end, only the ocean could save her and my mother. It was a betrayal she could never forgive."

Jon gives Elias a look over, something cautious and hopeful.

"That..._experience_, amongst others, soured her to the landfolk. She always warned me how dangerous your lot were. I never really fully _believed_ her though." He meets Elias' eyes, and the corner of his mouth curls up a little. 

Elias wears a strange blank look, before it too is swept off his face like the tide. His expression becomes warm, pleased, and his next words are curious instead, all trace of the blankness gone. 

"You said your mother was born without a seal skin, correct? How did she become a selkie then?"

Jon frowns a little, trying to decide if it is improper to tell a human how a selkie _actually_ gets their skin. It's fine, he decides. He can’t think of how it could ever prove useful to Elias.

"A _selkie_ is a _selkie_," he begins, sounding like he's quoting someone, "no matter what form they're born in. But, we must receive our first bite of flesh from a parent in order to grow our second skin. A selkie child born of a _seal_ mother is born a _seal_, and must taste of their parent's _human_ skin before they may change. A selkie born in their _human_ shape, like myself and my mother, must have a piece of the _seal_ skin instead. Traditionally, it is taken from here," Jon parts his hair and points to the scruff of his neck, "and will scar, marking them as having passed on the Blessing."

His grandmother has two markings, something she both seems to resent and hold above the few other selkies she likes enough not to eat. Jon doesn't have one, his now stolen pelt still unmarked. He is young still, by selkie standards, just shy of fifty.

"Utterly _fascinating_."

All of Elias' attention is on Jon, a rapt listener to the stories Jon is weaving around them. Jon finds he doesn't want to stop speaking, wants to spill everything to those bright eyes that actually see him. He has been lonely for so long, the ocean too wide a place for any decent company. Even his brief conversations with his food aren't enough to really stop the building ache.

"Do you want to hear more?" Jon's question is playful, but his tone betrays his eagerness. One night of good company and better books will make all of this worth it. He just knows it.

"Please. If you have anything else particularly interesting you'd like to share about your kind, I am very keen to learn."

The way Jon smiles is bright and toothy, and he flicks through the book, finding more discrepancies between truth and lies. In between each, he pulls out stories, proof of his claims. Some are about him, others about his grandmother. Elias listens to each with the same patient, devouring attention, only stopping him at one point to set a strange box between them that he called a tape recorder. It whirred gently in the background, and Jon quickly stopped noticing it as he continued his stories. Finally, Elias interrupts him.

“May I ask a question, Jon?” Jon tilts his head good-naturedly and Elias takes it as a cue to continue. “You said your grandmother followed a path of...of abandonment. Is that a term for something specific?”

"Well, all selkies are creatures of the Skin from the moment we receive the Blessing. It’s intrinsic." Jon drums his fingers on the open book in front of him. "But our natures are flexible. We can balance our _primary_ Path with something else entirely. I mean, commonly we tend to swing toward the Forgotten, like my grandmother, or the Drowning, the Endless, or the Hunt as our _secondary_ Path. It merely reflects how we _act_, rather than what we _are_." 

Elias takes a minute to consider this, a hungry, seeking sort of look on his face. Jon recognises it well. It is the urge—the need—to understand.

"I wasn't aware that an entire...species could balance between Powers. That's what you speak of, am I correct?"

Jon tilts his head at Elias, his expression growing equally curious. "Powers?"

Elias nods. "Your kind seem to refer to them by...action, or choice. We humans tend to refer to them by more lofty names. Like, Power or Fear, God or Entity. Something higher, outside ourselves. Do you have any other way to refer to these Paths?"

Jon's eyes focus down, at the book in his hands, then back at Elias. "The Ways, or I've also heard the Call from a few others. Why do you grant them so much power over you? Making them Gods, making them bigger than you takes the power, the, the onus out of _your_ hands."

Elias hums with polite interest. “Perhaps we want to align ourselves with something bigger to make ourselves feel important.”

“Following a Path doesn’t make you _special_.” Jon picks at the edge of his bandage. “It just accentuates who you’ve always been.”

“And what about you?” Jon looks up and Elias is smiling at him, leaning forward a bit into the bare amount of space between them. “What are you, Jon?”

“I don’t know,” says Jon. He frowns down at the book in his lap, full of stories and lies about selkies. What is he really doing here?

Elias reaches a hand out and presses a button on the tape recorder, throwing the room into sudden, empty silence. Jon’s throat hurts from all the talking he’s been doing, and he rolls his shoulders to try and stretch his cramping muscles. It must be late, he thinks, only moments before he yawns. He hadn’t realized how tired he’d been getting. 

"Thank you, Jon." Elias sounds a little breathless with how pleased he is. "I think it's time you turn in, though. I have a bit of paperwork to deal with, then I'll be going to bed myself. Tomorrow is certainly going to be an interesting day."

Jon snorts his agreement, eyes trying to slip shut with a desperation that only a soft place to sleep can bring. Elias covers him with a blanket nearly as soft as Jon's pelt, and it makes the hole in his chest just a little bit smaller. It also smells like Elias, which calms Jon's nerves in a way he doesn't _entirely_ want to think about.

"Good night," Elias says from the door when all the lights are out. Jon makes a sleepy noise of assent and Elias answers with a little huff that sounds almost fond. The click of the door is nice in its own way, casting the room into further darkness. 

It's a while later when Jon is awoken from his sleep by the sound of a door down the hall opening and closing, and two voices talking in hushed tones. He extracts himself from the covers with some difficulty, the warmth and softness a siren's call to stay. 

He's curious, though, about this other late night guest, and opens the door as quietly as he can. Luckily, it swings open with only a whisper of sound, rather than a creak. His footsteps down the hall towards Elias’ bedroom are light, cautious. 

Jon feels a little bad, listening in on this other man's one-on-one time with Elias. He pushes it down, ignores it in favour of his need to know. He crouches just outside the door, confused by the fact that he can only smell Elias. The nose in his human form must be even weaker than he’d realized. The humans inside are speaking quietly, in solemn tones, though Elias' voice carries a sharp edge of annoyance.

"Gertrude has proven herself enough of a danger, not just to others, but to the Institute as well. She _will_ be dealt with in due time. What is more important is that her replacement is ready." 

The guest clears his throat, like he wants to jump in, but Elias cuts him off. 

"I don’t need your opinion on my decisions. I merely need you to deliver _this_," Jon hears the sound of tapping on a desk and the rustle of papers, "and I will deal with everything else. I promise you will have your fun later."

"Very well, Elias. I don't like this, as I am sure you're aware." The strange man’s voice is odd, and distant.

"I am." Elias is firm, smug.

There's a rustling like someone standing up, and Jon panics a little. He doesn't want to get caught, so he slips away as quickly and quietly as he can back to the library. Only a few moments after he's back under the covers, he hears footsteps pass the door. He huddles deeper under the blanket at the sudden shiver of cold that runs through him, and holds his breath until the house is silent again. 

Barely ten minutes pass before the door to the library creaks open. Jon shuts his eyes quickly, doing his best to even out his breathing. He can smell Elias standing across the room, and then hears his footsteps coming closer. Even with his eyes closed, Jon can feel Elias’ gaze on him. 

"Sweet dreams," he murmurs, and leans over, pressing a kiss to Jon’s exposed forehead. Then he turns and finally, _finally_ leaves Jon by himself. Jon, in a valiant attempt to actually sleep, puts the conversation out of his mind. It sounded..._strange_, but not too concerning. Elias said he had paperwork to do before bed. Perhaps late night meetings are standard Institute business. He won’t be here long enough to concern himself with it either way.

He curls up tighter into the blankets, smelling Elias and books, and allows sleep to drop him into memories of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what you guys in the comments are so worried about. Elias is always this nice all the time.
> 
> We're on tumblr! Come talk to us. I'm @apatheticbutterflies and she's @twodrunkencelestials Thank you so much for reading and commenting you make both of us so happy T-T


	6. Undertow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias keeps his promises.

Jon wakes up early, grabs a book randomly off the shelves around him, and slips quietly down to the kitchen. Outside the windows, the sun is only just barely breaking the horizon, and the house is still hazy and gray. He breathes in the cool morning silence, feeling more alive than he has since he washed up ashore. It’ll be a shame to leave so many books behind unread, but perhaps Elias would be okay with him returning to visit at some point.

Jon flits about the kitchen, pulling back the memory of Elias doing the same yesterday to guide him to the correct drawers and cabinets. He fills the kettle with water, turns on the burner, fetches two cups and spoons and teabags. He perches lightly on the edge of the counter, leaning back against the cabinets, and opens the book he brought with him while he waits for the water to boil. It’s an architecture book. Jon happily settles into cross-referencing the unfamiliar terms with the pictures and diagrams scattered through the text.

He nearly bangs his head jumping at the sudden whistling of the kettle, and hurries to pull it off the heat. The smell that curls out of the mug as he fixes the tea is wonderful. It reminds him of the warmth in his chest, and that space that had lingered between him and Elias. He hadn’t had the courage to broach it. Maybe today he would, after he had gotten his coat, if only for a minute. Then, back home to the vast, cold ocean.

He looks up at the ceiling and, sure enough, there’s the sound of Elias’ footsteps.  _ Damn. _ If he hurries, it can still be something of a surprise.

“Jon?” Elias sounds caught off guard, and Jon feels pride flutter in his stomach. He finishes pouring milk into Elias’ mug and turns around to see him standing framed in the doorway to the kitchen. The selkie smiles at his host. Elias, his tone both sleepy and pleased, asks, “what are you doing in here so early?”

Jon holds out the mug at arm’s length towards Elias in answer, looking from it to him with nervous energy. “I copied how you took it yesterday.”

Elias walks across the room and takes the mug gently from Jon’s grasp. He looks softer than he had yesterday, his short hair still messy from sleep and his sharp button down replaced with a rumpled silk pajama top. Jon gnaws on his lip. 

Elias swallows a mouthful and makes a pleased noise. “A man could get used to this.”

“I just figured I could show my appreciation. For your hospitality.” Jon shifts from foot to foot, his cheeks growing faintly warm under Elias’ gaze. 

“Nonsense. My house is your home.”

Jon scratches at the back of his head, the beginnings of anxiety building in his chest. “That's...very kind of you. But I really ought to be getting back to my real home. It's been too long already.”

Elias takes another sip and licks the moisture from his bottom lip. “This really is excellent tea. You truly are the gift that keeps on giving, Jonathan.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten,” Jon tries again, laying his intentions out in his tone, holding back the flash of teeth and animal frustration, “but I need my skin back.” 

“Oh, yes.” Elias doesn’t break eye contact as he drains the rest of his tea. He reaches past Jon and sets the mug down on the counter with a thump. Jon presses down the instinctual panic of being cornered, and the even more subconscious flutter in his stomach at Elias’ proximity. “Actually, I’ve decided against that.”

Jon blinks. It feels like the breath has been sucked from his lungs. “I’m sorry?”

“I  _ said _ I’ve decided you’re far too interesting an opportunity to pass up.” Elias cups a hand around Jon’s cheek. The selkie tries to pull back, away, anywhere but  _ here, _ but fear keeps him stock still. “Clever, curious, beautiful, and already beholden to me?”

Elias slides his hand back into the tangle of Jon’s hair and Jon makes a strangled noise as his face goes red. His hands fly up to wrap around Elias’ wrist, trying to pull him away, but Elias grabs a fistful of hair and tugs. Jon’s knees go weak and he holds onto Elias’ wrist desperately just to keep himself vertical. 

“Not to mention so easily affected. It’s adorable, really.”

“M-my hair,” Jon gasps out, his head spinning with heat. “You aren’t...I said…”

“You said it’s only for those who are  _ close." _ Elias takes a step closer, crowding Jon backwards against the counter behind him. He presses his hips forward, and Jon is trapped between two burning points of contact. “I believe your husband qualifies.”

Jon’s eyes flick over Elias’ face, trying frantically to figure out how this had all changed so fast. It had been fine yesterday, his host kind and helpful. Had it all been a lie? He can barely catch his breath to ask,  _ “why?” _

“Isn’t it obvious?” Elias shrugs, casual and cruel. “I  _ want  _ you.”

Something in Jon  _ snaps. _ His anger, his grandmother's, all of it bursts out of him in a roiling wave that drags him forward, pushing Elias away with all his strength. He lashes out with every emotion every trapped selkie has ever had and feels a primal joy at the sound of Elias’ skin tearing beneath his nails. Jon will not be  _ trapped.  _ He will not be yet another tragic selkie story whispered about. Another fool who is used, abused, and left to languish far from their ocean home. 

_ He will not be his mother. _

Elias hisses, the marks left by Jon over his eye and cheek already bleeding. The smell of blood in the air is potent, and it makes Jon  _ hungry. _ He licks his teeth, bringing his hand close to his mouth to taste the sweet drops of Elias' blood captured under his nails. Elias brushes a finger over one of the streams of blood and brings it to his own lips, almost mirroring Jon.

The look Elias levels him is dangerous, sharp and disapproving. The weight of that gaze that had felt so kindly yesterday is too heavy now, like it's trapping Jon in place. Elias' cold eyes are hungry, all-consuming, as if they could empty Jon out until he is nothing but a loyal, hollow shell. The perfect husband. Brought to heel.

"Now, now,” Elias says, his tone perfectly even. “That wasn't very nice, Jon." 

Jon uses the space he’s gained to slip out of the trap of Elias’ arms and circle the room, putting the kitchen island between him and Elias. “You  _ lied  _ to me. You  _ betrayed  _ me. And you expected me to just go along with this?” Jon spits the words, his fingers twitching to strike again. “I would rather rip out your throat.” 

Elias' expression drops back into something calm, placid despite the blood on his face. Jon has lived long enough to recognize the still before a storm. He resists the urge to duck his head. He is not prey here. Elias is just a human. "Tell me where my skin is."

Elias’ gaze is like ice, but simmering beneath the surface is a smug confidence that sets Jon’s teeth grinding. How could he have thought Elias was kind. His grandmother was right, and Jon hates himself for his naivety.  _ Kindness.  _ First the man on the boat, now this monster in front of him. 

"First rule, Jon. I don’t like repeating myself. We’ll be spending a great deal of time together, so I would urge you to remember that." Elias' smile is indulgent, just like it was last night, but now Jon sees how cold and empty it truly is. The kindness rings false in the morning light, the undertow that has caught Jon and dragged him unwittingly into Elias’ trap.

Jon clenches his fists and casts a quick glance towards the front door. If he runs, if he gets to the streets, then maybe he can find another way to track his coat, or maybe get someone to help him. As if reading his thoughts, Elias gives a low chuckle. He would think it was fond, if it didn't send a chill down Jon's spine. Or maybe it’s the fondness itself that unnerved him. 

"Now Jon," Elias says, "you know there’s nothing out there for you."

"I don't care!" Jon snaps, a growl lacing the words, "I would rather live on the streets than with you. Dirty and starving is better than caged." 

Elias takes a step forward and Jon darts back. There may still be a counter between them, but it is not far enough for Jon's jumpy instincts. Elias shakes his head in a poor imitation of pity. 

"Oh my poor Jonathan. The world is nothing but cages for you. A creature that wears its own collar. Selkies are made to be  _ owned." _ Elias pauses, drawing the moment out, and the cruelty is plain on his face. "And you  _ are  _ a monster, Jon, one who cannot return home. Who eats the flesh of humans. Do you truly think anyone out there would help you?"

Jon flinches, the truth of the words cutting into him like a knife. Humans won't accept him. They  _ cannot _ accept him. Isn't that what his grandmother always taught him? His only hope, then, is home, the ocean. The cold, cruel waters that have cradled him better than this place.

"Give me my skin, then, if I am such a monster in your kind’s eyes.  _ Let. Me. Go." _

Elias shakes his head with mild exasperation. "What did I say about repeating myself? You are  _ mine." _

Elias takes a step forward and Jon breaks his gaze away to bolt for the door. He reaches out for the handle, nearly grasps it, when his feet lock suddenly in place. He tugs helplessly with all his might, but his treacherous body will not move. Jon lets out a high keening noise of desperation, his heart beating hummingbird-quick as Elias approaches him. 

"And you should feel lucky. As far as cages go, mine is a gilded one. I’ve heard stories of the horrors some selkies undergo. Locked up. Poked and prodded day in, day out. Treated like nothing more than an animal, or turned into a freak show to be studied or killed." 

Elias eyes Jon up and down, and steps in closer, his gaze that of a predator studying its prey. He brushes a hand over Jon's cheek and down his neck, and the selkie flinches back as best as he can. The feeling of being watched, studied,  _ dissected _ settles over him, and again, Jon tries in vain to move. He opens his mouth to say something, to shout, and finds he cannot even do that.

"I would never do that to you, Jon." Elias' words ring with genuine pity, and a gentleness that makes Jon’s skin crawl. "I am one of the kinder, more understanding humans you will meet concerning your nature and proclivities. I value you and your wellbeing. You will have books and fine clothes and anything else you desire. I will protect you from those who would harm you. You will live in comfort here, I can promise you that."

Jon shudders with something he doesn't want to name under the soft hands Elias settles on his shoulders, a weight he would have craved last night.  _ Did _ crave last night. Jon is disgusted, angry with himself for ever wanting anything from this eel of a man.

"Just like you promised to give me my skin back," Jon says, but it sounds weak even to his ears.  _ Pathetic,  _ he thinks, and it sounds painfully like his grandmother’s voice.

"Funny." Elias smirks. “I don’t remember saying anything like that.”

Jon’s mind whirls. He tries to think back to the promise he was so assured Elias had offered him, but he comes up blank, finding only kind words and distracting gestures and gazes that were already too possessive and hungry. Jokes that had seemed harmless suddenly twist into awful hints of Elias' true intentions.

The anger rolls hot back through him, and Jon makes a vicious grab for Elias, snagging the collar of his pajamas and dragging him closer. Jon lunges, teeth first, towards Elias’ unprotected throat. He can hear the rush of his own blood and smell the pulse of Elias’ beneath his teeth, so close he fantasizes about tasting it before he is stopped dead. It feels like he has a collar around his throat, choking him, before it pulls him back painfully. Jon struggles against the invisible bond, panting and glaring. 

Everything in Jon burns to dig his fingers in and carve the pleased expression right out of Elias’ face, but he can’t move. 

_ "What did you do to me?" _ Jon demands, teeth flashing.

“A selkie cannot kill its master, Jon. Some myths are simply true.” Elias pulls the end of his sleeve up over his hand and dabs at the scratch marks on his face. The gray silk turns heavy and purple with blood. "And I’ve added a little extra insurance of my own seeing as I prefer not being clawed to death in my sleep." 

Of course Jon had heard of these limitations, and intellectually he knew there was a reason that every captured selkie did not simply kill and eat their tormenter, but knowing it was the case was far different than experiencing it. He’d never imagined the pain of it, the stiff betrayal of his muscles, the invisible wires wrapping around him like being tangled in a fishing net he cannot see.

"Jon, I am not a monster,” Elias says. “I will, as your husband, treat you with the respect, kindness, and love that you've earned. You won't starve, won't be without comfort. Everything I have in this world will be open to you if you accept being my husband." 

Jon drops his eyes to the side as if he is actually considering the offer. 

Elias takes this as a cue to continue, his voice getting softer, sweeter. "You enjoyed yourself yesterday. You were happy, willing. Perhaps, if I had tried to keep you then," he lightly pulls one hand along his jawline, "you would have willingly given up your life at sea to be with me. Part of you wanted to."

Jon cannot help but remember the warmth in his chest, and that strange longing he’d had to feel Elias’ touch on his hair. He buries that now. He will not allow Elias the satisfaction of his blooming affection, even if it might make his imprisonment easier to bear.

"No,” Jon says, but Elias’ smirk says he knows Jon is lying through his teeth. 

Elias grabs Jon’s hand and pulls it up, holding fast against Jon’s attempts to pull away. "This doesn’t have to be painful for you. You could be my husband willingly."

Jon grits his teeth. "Don’t act like I have a choice in this.”

“We all have choices, Jon. Yours brought you to me.” Elias pulls Jon’s hand up and kisses the back of his knuckles.

“Then I choose to leave.”

“You’re welcome to try.” Elias shrugs.

Jon narrows his eyes. “I choose that one day you will drown in your own blood, screaming and clawing at your throat."

“Then I suppose you’ll have to stay close to me, until you can make that happen.” Elias leans in, and Jon only just barely manages to tear his gaze away so that Elias’ lips land on his cheek instead of his mouth. So many emotions curl in his stomach that he feels sick. Elias leans back and sighs. “Unfortunately, as enjoyable as this has been, I have to leave for work.”

Jon scowls, and snatches his hand back as soon as Elias releases it. The second Elias turns away to leave the kitchen, sensation suddenly floods back into Jon’s body and he crumbles to the ground shaking. Distantly, he hears Elias climb the stairs, move about getting dressed and ready for the day. Jon leans back against the wall, trying to rub the terror of being unable to move out of his trembling limbs. A thousand thoughts jumble in his head and he can’t focus on any of them. 

When Elias comes back down, Jon has curled his legs into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Elias, of course, looks perfectly put together, except for the long scratches marring the side of his face. They've been cleaned, but Jon can still taste the blood in his teeth.

“Really, Jon. You couldn’t have done this someplace less noticeable?” Elias pushes lightly at the marks, a crease edging in between his eyebrows. “People will talk. And that’s no way to start a marriage.”

Jon chooses not to respond, simply buries his nose in his arms and glares at Elias as best he can. It is not nearly satisfying enough. Elias merely responds with a bland smile.

“Have a good day, Jon. I'll be back late with a few necessities for you. Do behave."

Elias is out the door almost as soon as he's finished his sentence. It's a rather cold exit, next to the passion Elias had seemed to have for Jon earlier. Jon waits for a moment, gathering himself, until he hears the distant roar of Elias’ car pulling off down the street. Then he rolls onto his knees and pushes himself to his feet. Doesn’t matter if the surface world is awful. He’s getting out of here. 

When the selkie reaches for the door knob, he pulls back with a bit of a hiss. His palm stings, and he takes a closer look at the door handle. It's old and ornate, and the slight smell, combined with the burn, has Jon scowling. It's iron, and good, proper iron too. 

He's not going to let that stop him, not when he's so close to an exit. Jon grips the handle and yanks it open. The world looms large and open and inviting, but the second Jon takes a step to go outside he's stopped by an invisible barrier. He can feel the curling press of Elias’ insistence digging into his skin, drawing him back. The sky is impossibly big and impossibly blue and impossibly far away. Jon’s heart sinks with the sure, straight path of an anchor down to the murky depths. He closes his eyes to the tantalizing breeze on his face and turns back into the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, wild Jon. We'll be seeing more of him around. ;) Next chaper is going to be fun. Another one from Elias' point of view!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and for the comments and kudos!


	7. Clipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias loves his job and Elias loves his Jonathan. Not necessarily in that order.

Elias has always loved his job. Both sides of it, even. He derives endless entertainment from watching his wayward archivist make her way across the Asian continent, or from wheeling and dealing with the upper echelons of supernatural society, or from laying plans to serve that which feeds him. But he’s also always loved the basic mundanity of management. Scheduling, budget cuts, even just the simple pleasure of ordering Rosie to fetch him coffee and knowing she’ll do it not because he’s the chosen agent of an all-seeing god, but because he’s her superior. It’s terribly quaint.

Today, however, Elias can hardly stand to be in his office. He hasn’t felt this antsy in years. His eyes keep straying from his computer to the ornate clock that stands in the corner. It’s remarkable, really, Elias muses while absentmindedly flicking the back of his pen against the palm of his hand, how _young_ new love can make you feel.

Elias remembers again the quivering of Jon’s cheek beneath his hand, the wide-blown terror of his pupils, and the casing of his pen cracks slightly as he presses it too-hard into the edge of his desk. His gaze flicks back again to the beginning of the same sentence of the discretionary fund request he’s been attempting to read for the past ten minutes. It’s unprofessional, really. He’s acting like some kind of child with no self control, neglecting his work in favor of fantasizing. Oh how Peter would mock him if he knew. 

Elias looks up again at the traitorous clock that has only moved a minute since his last inspection. It’s going to be a long day.

Despite his impatience, Elias doesn’t head straight home as soon as he can reasonably excuse himself for the day. There’s much preparation that needs to be done if he’s going to have a permanent house guest. In the end, he doesn’t make it back until well into the evening, loaded down with bags and purchases.

Walking into his house, well, Elias would be lying if he said he was _pleased_. Not exactly surprised, but definitely not pleased. The kitchen is trashed, the refrigerator door hangs open and a strange array of half-eaten foods lay tossed all over the counters and table. Elias picks his way carefully around a slimy pile of fishbones that were simply discarded on the floor and places his bags down on one of the few clean chairs. Elias frowns as he runs his hand down the long scratch marks carved into the door frame. Jonathan is certainly determined to make himself a costly investment. Worth it, though. Undoubtedly worth it. 

Elias doesn’t hear any movement from upstairs, so he takes the time to put away his groceries and toss out the garbage Jon left scattered about. Luckily, he’d gotten more food than he’d thought they’d need since most of the things in the fridge will need to be binned after spending all day out in the heat. As Elias wipes down the table, he finds more deep claw marks. A casual observer would assume that some kind of wild animal had been let loose in the house. It's not so far off, Elias supposes. 

That will be the first thing to address, then.

The rest of the house is in a similar state of disarray. Every single closet and drawer has been opened and entirely tossed through. The floor is nearly obscured by piles of coats and umbrellas and knick-knacks. As if Elias would be foolish enough to leave Jon’s skin in the house.

The door to the library is closed, and Elias opens it as quietly as he can, peeking his head into the darkened room. There, finally, is his husband, curled up in an anxious knot asleep on the loveseat. Probably tired himself out with his little rampage through all of Elias’ worldly possessions. Still, something in Elias is helplessly endeared by the angry crease that mars Jon’s forehead even in sleep, and the gentle rise and fall of his thin shoulders. Elias has always been too soft for his own good. 

Elias eases the door shut again and continues along to his own bedroom. The devastation here is worse than the rest of the house. All of Elias’ drawers have been flung open, and many pieces of clothing have been torn in addition to crumpled on the ground. His copy of _Folktales of the Sea_ lies scattered about the floor, almost entirely shredded. Elias bends down to pick up the cover and turns it over. The inscription reads _For my_ and then where Elias’ name had once been is a passionate criss-cross of scratches so deep they nearly go straight through the stock. Elias smiles a little, a warmth settling in his stomach at the thought of Jonathan sitting in his room, thinking about Elias, just as Elias was in his office thinking of Jon.

Elias hums a made up tune as he straightens up his room, folding the clothes that can be salvaged and returning them to their drawers. He also unpacks the clothes he purchased for Jon and makes room for them in the dresser beside his own. He places Jon’s new toiletries all through the bathroom, adds the additional pillows to his bed, and stacks a few brand new books he’d thought Jon might like on the bedside table. Elias steps back and takes a moment to admire his hard work. It all looks very charmingly domestic. Now, it's onto the unpleasant part of his evening. 

Elias walks back down the hall to the library and steps inside fully. He flicks on the light and Jon makes a high-pitched whine at the sudden intrusion. Elias is pleased when he looks around and sees that of the whole house, the library is the only place Jon has left completely untouched, each book whole and neatly in its place. He really is remarkable.

“Do you mind?” Jon snarls, squinting up at Elias and drawing the blanket tight around his shoulders. The edges where he’s gripping it are tatted slightly under his tense fingers.

“I do, actually.” Elias laces his fingers together and bounces his hands lazily against his hip. “Mind, that is.”

“_Good_.” Jon pulls his blanket up over his head and resettles himself with a pointed violence back into the couch. Elias sighs. Every relationship has a few growing pains, he knows. Jon, as interesting as he is, will provide a few unique ones.

“Come now, Jon.” Elias strides across the room, grabs the corner of Jon’s pillow still peeking out from the mound of blanket, and tugs it sharply out. Jon’s head hits the cushion with a dull thump and he makes an aggrieved noise. The pile shifts and, at last, Jon sits up, glaring cold daggers at Elias, his curls sticking out at odd and endearing angles. Elias gets the sudden urge to reach out and brush them down properly, and he’s never been one to deny himself simple pleasures, so he does so. Jon nearly breaks something flinging himself against the back of the loveseat so fast. 

“What happened to living in comfort? Am I not _allowed_ to sleep?” Jon’s words drip with venom.

Elias grabs Jon by the wrist perhaps a little harder than necessary, but, well, there was really no need for that tone of voice. He hauls the selkie to his feet and drags him along behind him. “I’m afraid we still need to lay down some ground rules.” 

Jon plants his feet and tugs at Elias’ grasp on his wrist. Elias is promptly glad he chose to hold on so tightly. “Fine. My ground rule one is don’t _touch_ me.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Jon?” Elias turns back to face Jon and sees him brace himself, half flinched already. He reaches out and glides a finger so lightly down the curve of Jon’s jaw that he barely makes contact at all, but even that has the selkie trembling and wide-eyed. “It seems to me that spending so long all alone with only me for company, you might start to crave it.”

Elias could push just a little further, dip his fingers in the cool stream of emotions flowing through Jon’s mind, but the painful mess is easy enough to read in the quiver of his bottom lip, and the desperate panic of his gaze. Elias smiles and turns away again, squeezing Jon’s wrist once with a comforting pressure before leading him into their bedroom.

Jon looks so small perched on the edge of Elias’ bed. Dark against the puff of cottony white comforter around him. He’d almost panicked when he sunk in, like he’d never before sat somewhere soft enough to give beneath his weight. Elias leaves him there as he walks around the room gathering a few things. Jon’s glare never leaves the back of his head. He feels it like a grip twisting gently at the back of his mind. His new husband is so suspicious.

“Tell me.” Elias sets a small wastebasket down on the floor in front of Jon who looks down at it with confusion. Elias takes a step backwards and taps the bedroom wall meaningfully. “What is this?”

The soft paisley wallpaper is torn through by four vicious gashes, and it's ripped edges lay open like a bleeding wound. The wooden wall behind it is scored with four matching scratches. Elias turns from the wall back to Jon and raises one eyebrow, primly. Jon just scowls harder.

“Tacky decorating?”

Elias’ smile stretches wider but his eyes are cold. “It’s _unacceptable_ is what it is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jon snarls, “is the monster you imprisoned _inconveniencing_ you?”

“We both have to live here, Jon.” Elias spreads his hands, hoping perhaps he can catch some of Jon’s more rational side. “Neither of us want to live in filth. If you keep ruining the food, for instance, what will we have to eat?”

Jon crosses his arms and runs his tongue along the bottom of his teeth. “I wouldn’t mind if _you_ starved.”

“But I’m not the one who can’t leave the house.”

Jon’s back straightens like a shot. “Is that a _threat_?”

“Hardly. If I were trying to threaten you, Jon, you’d know.” Jon uncurls his arms and braces his hands behind him. All the muscles in his body are coiled, like he’s ready to flee, Elias can read as much in his eyes. He sighs and shakes his head loosely. “Please, calm down. I’m not planning on harming you.”

Jon snorts, an ugly, derisive sound. Elias can see a bitterness settling in his eyes. “Since when?”

“_None_ of this has been with the intention to harm you. Perhaps it seems bad to you, but compared to the potential torments you could be suffering at the hands of other humans, this barely even ranks as an inconvenience.” Elias takes a few steps forward and holds out a hand. “Give me your hand, please.”

“No.” Jon shrinks back and eyes the proffered hand with unease. 

“I’m sure neither of us wants to see what would happen if I chose to be less...pleasant.” Elias pushes his open palm forward, pointedly. “Your hand. Now.”

Jon’s defenses fizzle a little, but he still keeps his hands gripped in fists on Elias’ quilt. “Why?”

“Is the fact that your claws are tearing holes in my nice linens reason enough?”

Jon looks down at his hands as if only just now realizing how tightly he’s holding on. He looks back up, and Elias can see the thin film of resistance still settled behind his eyes. Well, if he broke easily it wouldn’t really be worth keeping him.

“I’m not _afraid_ of you.” 

“That’s because I haven’t given you a reason to be.” Elias inclines his head. “Will it be necessary to?”

“You can’t do anything worse than taking my freedom,” Jon spits.

“I’m not sure if that’s true,” Elias says slowly, pursing his lips in careful contemplation, “but I do understand your fixation. It can be scary, giving up your autonomy. I’ve been in your shoes, you know.”

Jon pointedly doesn’t rise to the bait, the muscles bunching in his jaw as he glares Elias down. He really has an excellent glare. Elias can taste the curiosity bubbling impatiently just below the surface. 

“It can also be incredibly fulfilling, however. To surrender to your nature.”

“What are you talking about?” The look Jon wears is incredulous, doubtful.

Elias smiles. “Give me your hand and I’ll tell you.”

The soft sound of ripping thread is music to Elias’s ears as Jon pulls his claws free one by one. A new quilt will be a small price to pay. There’s still distrust and hatred layered in Jon’s eyes, but he places his hand in Elias’ entirely of his own volition. Distrust is better than disobedience, and hatred is entirely unsustainable. Elias has all the time in the world to win this cold war, and he fully intends to.

“There. You see?” Elias says, knowing that Jon does not see. Knowing he sits full of questions he’s desperate for Elias to answer. “That is your nature.”

Jon growls impatiently, the flash of teeth a little bit charming in a wild sort of way.

“Your species. Selkies. They’re quite curious, don’t you think? When they adopt their human form they wear a skin that can be _taken_, and as soon as it is taken they are _owned_. No other creature I know of has such a glaring design flaw.” 

Elias smooths his thumb over the back of Jon’s palm, and with his other hand straightens out each of Jon’s fingers one at a time. At first, when Elias’s grip pops off the end of one of Jon’s fingers it curls back up reflexively, but when he straightens it again with pointed precision Jon leaves it extended, just where Elias placed it. He takes direction beautifully. “You don’t find it odd that you found me so easily?”

“It’s _my_ skin,” Jon counters.

“But you didn’t find your skin. You found _me_. Your skin wasn’t at my institute and it’s not here now, as I’m sure you’re well aware. It’s hidden, and no supernatural force is tugging you closer to it. Because you’re already where you’re supposed to be.”

Elias watches Jon as he tries to focus, narrowing his eyes and struggling to summon up some kind of sense for his own skin. It’s pointless. If selkies could find their own skins so easily, they would not have the legends that exist today. Even if they could, Elias has hidden it too well. Jon will never find it.

“Your kind are naturally drawn to the owner of their skin. You rely on them wholly, cannot leave them, cannot kill them. It’s in your blood to serve, and to love. _This_ is your nature.” Elias presses Jon’s palm onto his knee, holding his own hand on top of it to keep it flat. He gestures to Jon’s fully extended fingers, kept up without any guidance. “Obedience.”

“Does that look obedient to you?” Jon flicks his chin at the gouges ripped into the bedroom wall, but Elias can see a dawning sense of frustrated disquiet in his eyes. 

“Exactly my point. You are rebelling, like a child.” Elias nudges the waste bin over to rest beneath Jon’s knee and hand and kneels down in front of him. Out of his pocket he produces a small, silver nail clipper. “And if you can’t be trusted with your toys, they get taken away.”

Jon instinctively tenses and tries to pull away, but Elias keeps his hand pressed firmly down. “Careful, Jon. If you move, I might slip and take off too much.”

Jon freezes and Elias carefully slides the clippers around the sharp point of Jon’s pinkie nail. The snap of the clippers is nearly covered by the low whine of distress Jon lets out. Not his most attractive noise, but it holds a certain charm.

“Since you’re going to be stuck in human form,” Elias says, moving the clippers to the next finger, “you ought to start behaving like one. That means using your _words_ when you want something.”

Jon doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on his fingers with a kind of quiet desperation. He doesn't try to pull away again, though, so it's a quiet victory for Elias. He drops his head back to his task and begins neatly trimming and shaping Jon’s nails into short, blunt edges. He works in silence for a few moments before Jon finally speaks, voice low and tense.

“So what is _human_ nature, then? To control? Or to destroy?"

Elias keeps his chin ducked to hide his smile, but it creeps into his voice. “Both, perhaps. But my nature is merely to observe.” 

Jon snorts, eyes focused on the scratches on the wall, then back to the top of Elias' head. He doesn’t flinch as the clippers snap the tip off his thumbnail. “Funny how you still manage to talk so much.”

“I found myself in my service to something greater. I was always an observer, the Eye has simply let me embrace my truest self.”

“So, that’s one of your so-called gods, then?”

Elias looks up and smiles. He lifts his hand off Jon’s to skim his knuckles gently across Jon’s chin. Jon’s eyes are so dark the iris bleeds into the pupil. Elias can see himself reflected back in them. “If you knew it as I do, you’d see the beauty of being owned, body and soul.”

Jon stares down at him. Proud and foolish and filled with cold, silent rage. Elias wishes for a moment that he weren’t so patient, that he wasn’t wise enough to hold back from pushing Jon to the bed and claiming him no matter the consequences.

“You’re _wrong_ about selkies,” Jon says.

“Other hand, please.”

Jon pulls his other claws free from the bedspread and holds his hand out to Elias without comment. He meets Elias' eyes, glares, and says again, “You’re wrong about selkies and you’re wrong about _me_.”

“Is that so?” Elias hums with polite interest as he bends back to his task. “I’m not generally in the business of being wrong.”

“You can fill a pool with water and call it yours,” Jon says, “but the sky reclaims and the rain returns and the ocean is always the ocean.”

“I know _you_, Jon.” Elias clips the last nail short and pushes himself to standing. He brushes his pants off and looks down at Jon where he still sits, tense, on the bed. “I know everything about you. And you want me to be right. Deep down, you want to believe that your attraction to me is nothing but chemicals, a draw towards your husband so biological that you cannot escape it.”

Elias leans forward and pets a hand down Jon’s hair just to see him turn wobbly and red and indignant. “It makes it easier, doesn’t it?”

Jon pushes himself to standing, briefly coming into tantalizingly close quarters with Elias in order to escape his hand before he edges out of the trap between Elias and his bed. “You’ve successfully maimed me,” he growls, crossing his arms defensively. “Are we done?” 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The look Jon gives Elias says exactly how unintelligent he thinks he is. His tone is snippy and cold. “Back to the library.” 

“Absolutely not.” Jon furrows his brow in confusion, his lips drawing back from his teeth. Elias speaks slowly, like Jon is a child who cannot grasp simple concepts. “Humans sleep in bedrooms.”

“What?”

“Humans sleep in bedrooms, Jon,” Elias repeats. “And as long as you are my husband you will behave like one.”

Jon turns bright cherry red and Elias almost chuckles at the thoughts he’s sure are already going through his mind. “I’m not _sleeping with you_.”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you.” Elias raises his hands innocently. “Simply a shared bed between a married couple. People would talk if they knew you couldn’t even stand to sleep in the same room as me.”

“_People_ would be _right_.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, no, no!” Jon shakes his head and backs up another step. “I would sleep in alleys again before sharing a bed with you.”

Well. Everybody has their breaking point. Elias is mature enough not to let his disappointment rule him. It wasn’t as though he’d pictured Jon crumbling before his every demand. The important thing is what he gains on the upswing.

“Very well, I won’t force you. But you _will_ sleep in the bedroom. I don’t care where.”

“Great.” Jon stalks around to the far side of the bed. “Floor it is.”

“Pillows and blankets belong on beds, though, Jon.” The nights are cold here, and Elias isn’t planning on turning up the heating for a stubborn selkie’s sake. Jon can shiver on the floor, or he can accept Elias’ hospitality.

Jon freezes in his tracks. He turns to face Elias with a kind of broken down exasperation. “Please, Elias.”

_Please, Elias_. The warm rush of affection in Elias’ chest leaves him feeling giddy like a teenager. His soft heart really is going to get him into trouble one of these days, but oh he could get used to hearing things like that. He closes his eyes a moment and pictures Jon’s dark, endless eyes looking up at him wet and desperate as he whispers _please, Elias_. A shiver runs down his spine. Good behavior ought to be rewarded.

“Fine. One pillow, one blanket. But I get a good morning and good night kiss every day.” Elias can’t hold his smile back from stretching out smug and comfortable. “I need to remember we’re married somehow, after all.”

Jon narrows his eyes. That suspicion is back in full force. “A simple kiss?”

“A simple kiss,” Elias assures, “barely a peck.”

“And it won’t turn into anything?”

“Not unless you want it to.” He stretches out his hands gently, placatingly.

Jon pulls a face that Elias doesn’t feel is entirely merited. He’s not a bad looking man and he knows Jon has pictured it.

“Fine.” Jon reaches out and grabs a pillow from the bed and tugs at the soft blanket folded up at the foot. “One kiss.”

Jon throws the pillow at the floor and drags the blanket over to it, letting it fall in an untidy heap. He keeps walking, coming back to Elias’ side and eyeing him nervously. His gaze keeps flicking back and forth between Elias’ lips and his eyes, and Elias can almost hear the nervous patter of his heart. 

“Get it over with,” he says, closing his eyes and jutting out his chin defiantly. Elias is swept by a sudden, not entirely supernatural certainty that Jon has never been kissed before. His tension hangs in the air and Elias can see his thin shoulders almost trembling. Jon truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Elias holds back a moment, taking in the full picture of submission that is Jon waiting and quivering for Elias to claim. Elias licks his lips, a hint of a grin on his face. 

Finally, after a long silent moment, Elias steps forward and presses a chaste kiss to Jon’s forehead.

Jon opens his eyes and blinks in barefaced confusion. He looks lost, and softer than he has since this morning. Elias smiles. Jon really is adorable.

He’s never going to get any work done at this rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading and leaving comments! You guys make all of this worth it. Come talk to us on tumblr (@apatheticbutterflies and @twodrunkencelestials) we post writing sometimes and we're very friendly!!!
> 
> See y'all next Tuesday~


	8. Confined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes a stand. Elias takes a knee.

Jon is beginning to understand why his grandmother raised him to hate humans. Marilla had seen that streak of curiosity in him when he was a young pup, too eager to go off and explore on his own, and had known where it would get him in the end. She had tried her best to warn him off that path with glares and nips and strict rules that kept him isolated, in the ocean and away from the dangers of humanity, but at every turn he had disobeyed. He'd snuck away, chased ships, and collected all kinds of odds and ends he found on islands, cataloging them with endless fascination towards the surface world. 

How he wishes now that he had closed his eyes like his grandmother wanted, turned away from the desire to learn that tangled in his chest and pressed down on his lungs with desperate choking need. But maybe Elias is right. Maybe there is such a thing as inescapable nature. 

The next few weeks are downright awful. That first night, he’d thought foolishly that he could have it all. First freedom, and then return later for books and company at his pleasure. Elias has proven, though, that the only pleasure humans care about is their  _ own. _ His company isn’t worth all the knowledge in the world.

Elias keeps his promises, locking the bedroom door each night so that Jon is forced to sleep on his floor like a dog, and subjecting him each morning and evening to a single kiss on the forehead. But Jon keeps his own, secret promise to himself, to fight Elias every step of the way. He may be trapped in the house and this sham of a marriage, but no one said he had to go quietly.  _ Obedience _ . No way is Elias getting that from him.

When he wakes in the morning, Jon keeps his blanket firmly over his head and refuses to budge so that Elias is forced to ungracefully tug at it to earn even an inch of skin to kiss. He leaves him to breakfast alone, deigning only to get up once Elias has gone to work. During the day, he alternates between reading, scouring the house for clues about Elias and his life and where he might have hidden Jon’s skin, and using kitchen knives to gouge his fury into Elias’ walls. Who does Elias think he is, cutting Jon’s nails like that, as if he were a mere house cat.

That night when Elias comes home his disappointment is palpable. He gathers up all of the kitchen knives and puts them in a bag in his car. Jon moves on to scissors.

By day four the stormy cloud of Elias’ displeasure follows him all through the house as he gathers half his cutlery, his pens and pencils and letter opener and a whole armload of anything that could be even marginally considered sharp, and totes them laboriously to his car out of Jon’s reach. Jon sits on the stairs, gripping the banister, and watches with the first real grin he’s had in weeks.

The next day Jon moves on to the fridge. He spends the day picking over all of the foods Elias had bought and tossing anything he doesn’t like onto the floor. In a pointed display of rebellion, Jon grabs those carrot things Elias had forced him to eat and buries them all in Elias’ dresser drawers. Let that prove he isn’t some wild animal destroying whatever he touches. He’s a person with a grudge. Who intends to make Elias’ life unbearable until he’s released.

But in spite of all the minor miseries Jon prides himself on causing, between the two of them, Jon is still more miserable. Giving into the good morning and good night kisses has not spared him from Elias’ casual pets through his hair as they read side by side, or the familiar way he slides his hands along Jon’s arms as he guides him places. No amount of Jon visibly cringing, or complaining, or trying to move away seems to dissuade him from them, and eventually Jon gives up and lets them continue. It pays off in Elias’ small kindnesses elsewhere, giving Jon more privacy or longer reading time when he allows these sparing intimacies. Sometimes, when he’s not paying attention, he can even forget to hate them.

Nothing he's been doing, not the near-obsessive reading, or his acts of troublemaking, have been able to distract him from the low ache that has settled inside of him. He yearns, endlessly, for the sea. All the stories he's come across tell of it, that pull trapped selkies feel toward home. It ebbs and flows like the tide, barely noticeable when he’s absorbed in a book and warmed in spite of himself by Elias’ body heat, and then worse again on the long nights he spends curled up on the floor miserable and shivering and  _ alone.  _

He alternates between cold fury and despair, each day growing more and more certain that there is no loophole, no sudden providence waiting just around the corner. Each day he grows just a little more tired, a little more angry, a little more resigned to each kiss, a little more ready to  _ snap. _ They war inside him until he feels like he is going to go insane. 

Two weeks in, and Elias comes home to a portrait crumpled on the floor, the glass of the frame shattered into a dozen pieces. The walls are jagged with cuts and impaled with shards of glass, and the floor is a mess of blood. Jon waits for him curled up under his blanket, still shaking with rage. 

"Alright, that's it. That's quite enough out of you."

Elias' tone is sharp, and it startles Jon into peeking out. The tension that has been building over the course of Jon's rebellion has finally snapped. Jon can see it in the way Elias holds himself, and in the twitch of his hands. The cold fury in his eyes makes Jon want to curl up and submit. He  _ won't _ though, he refuses to.

Jon sits up under that icy gaze and gives one right back. "Quite enough of  _ what, _ Elias?"

"You are being childish Jon, destroying  _ our _ home in your tantrum. I've spoken to you, tried to gently correct you. Nothing has worked. You've forced my hand."

Elias doesn't raise his voice, doesn't snarl the words out like Jon would in his anger. It's calm, cold, and that makes it all the more frightening. It reminds Jon a little of his grandmother in her worse moods. 

"What are you going to do then?" Jon snaps, teeth pulled back into a snarl. "Take away my only blanket? Starve me?  _ Just let me go. _ "

"No," Elias says, clipped, his arms crossed, "but you've proven yourself too untrustworthy to be allowed to wander the house when you're alone. You will have to be locked up until you can learn to respect our living space."

_ "What?" _

Jon is utterly horrified, and draws himself back from the man who claims to be his husband. 

"I'm already trapped in this house," Jon says, a waver in his voice, "how much more can you lock me up?"

The way Elias spreads his hands is clearly supposed to be comforting, but it only comes across as threatening in the wake of his next words.

"You will be allowed out during the evening when I am home, and for sleep. But you will be locked in there," Elias points to the washroom with a deliberate casualness, "when I am at work or otherwise not at home. Do you understand Jon?"

Jon stares at Elias, and considers the ease with which the man can wield cruelty like a weapon. He’d been foolish to think he couldn’t have any more taken from him.

"And if I resist? Refuse to?" Jon asks, anger sharpening his words and colouring his face red. 

"Then," Elias says, matter-of-factly, "I might find it necessary to physically chain you up. I have access to some proper iron ones."

Jon whines high and horrified, scooting away until his back hits the wall with a thud. The thought of iron, the fierce burn on his skin for literal _hours,_ makes Jon duck his head and finally submit to Elias. Being locked up will be terrible, but that fate is _so much_ _worse._

Elias seems to realise the effect that the threat had and kneels down, softening his voice. When he shifts forward more, Jon whines again, pressing himself flat against the wall behind him. It's not far enough,  _ nowhere _ in this house is far enough.

"Jon, this is only until you learn. There will be no chains if you can behave and not destroy the bathroom. Do you understand?" 

Jon nods, quick, eyes still down on the hand Elias extends towards him, his palm forward and fingers spread.

"Words Jon, use your words,” Elias reminds him, tone still gentle. Jon hates that tone right now, borderline patronising. 

"Yes, Elias _ . _ " He struggles to find his anger again, but it is lost in the primal terror that floods his throat. He shuts his eyes tightly and tucks his chin into his chest. His dignity lays tattered on the ground, and he can’t bear to look Elias in the eyes. 

He hears Elias stand, and then he pats Jon on the head like a pet. Jon is quick to hiss a warning and pulls away sharply, his defenses rallied again, but as usual, it doesn’t dissuade Elias in the slightest. 

"It will start tomorrow then. Come now, Jon, we have to make supper."

***

The next morning dawns too early. Last night had been full of tossing and turning, anger and cold silence ruling the library and bedroom, at least on Jon's end. After announcing his punishment, Elias had cheered right up, chatting throughout dinner like he  _ wasn't _ planning on locking Jon up for daring to show his opinion on his captivity. 

Jon watches Elias get ready, steadiness and efficiency embodied. He's curled up like a lump in his blankets, both moping and glaring at his husband. It looks rather childish, but Jon feels he has every right to be upset.

"So, am I to be expected to starve until you get home?" 

Elias casts a half-amused look in Jon's direction and sighs. "You  _ could _ come have breakfast with me, you know. Otherwise, you will be expected to wait, yes."

Breakfast is a thankfully short affair, filled with pointed silence on one side, and smugness on the other. After it's done, Elias grabs a tea mug and leads Jon back upstairs. The selkie wants to resist, but when he considers the threat of the iron chains, he decides not to fight it for now. He can always find a way out when Elias isn't home. The door can't be  _ that _ sturdy. 

When Jon tries to take a pillow and his book from the night before into his temporary cage. Elias shakes his head, and chides, "those must stay in the bedroom. I don't want them ruined."

He guides Jon in by the elbow and instructs him. "Now, I will be home soon enough. I want you to spend your time in here carefully considering your behaviour towards myself and the house. If you had made smarter choices, this entire punishment could have been avoided. I trust you’ll agree soon."

Jon opens his mouth to retort, snipe back at Elias, but the man has already turned his back. The mug is set down pointedly by the sink, and then Elias closes the door behind him. Jon hears the door lock with a sturdy thump. As the sound of footsteps fades away, Jon rushes to try the door handle. It’s locked, of course, and the handle is sturdy brass, old and well made. A few experimental tosses of his shoulder against the thick wood confirms that he isn’t going to be able to break it down. 

He spends the rest of the day alternating between trying to find a way out and brooding in the empty bathtub. Boredom sets in after Jon has emptied the drawers to search for something useful, and it's spite alone that keeps him from putting everything back. As much as he'd like to avoid stepping on anything, the possibility of annoying Elias is a much more pleasant notion.

When Elias finally comes home, Jon expects frustration. Instead, Elias smiles, his eyes glinting, and says, "well, at least you've given yourself something to do tomorrow."

The second day comes, and as Jon picks his way across the ransacked room, he realizes the mess is only inconveniencing  _ him _ , so he ends up spending the day tidying up and studying each object, trying to catalogue and read anything written on them. It passes most of the day, leaving only his last hour to glare at the door over the edge of the tub, considering all the creative things he would do to Elias if he could harm the man.

This evening is considerably more pleasant than the previous. Elias allows him an extra helping of fish during dinner, which he eats ravenously after spending all day without food, and something in Jon preens at Elias’ genuine compliments over the organizing of the bathroom. He shoves it down, burying the happy warmth that unconsciously floods through him.

Day three, Jon discovers a new favourite way to pass his long hours.  _ Bathing. _

He's had a few in the weeks leading up to this, for cleanliness purposes, but he hadn't considered just having one for fun. He takes his baths dreadfully cold, at least according to Elias, but Jon doesn't care. They help ease the hole in his chest that longs for home, for the dark, briny depths. At first he simply leaves the tub full, since he’s planning on using it again so going through the trouble of draining it seems foolish, but Elias’ attitude when he gets home makes it clear that this is another one of his little tests that Jon is failing, and so begrudgingly, Jon empties it every time. Anything to ensure his captivity within captivity is over as soon as possible.

He sings too, while in the tub. The room and water together have pleasant acoustics, and it reminds Jon of a place he used to frequent when he was younger. He pulls out old songs he knows from his childhood and newer ones that Elias likes to listen to, from tragic sounding operas to quiet folk songs that even Jon recognises.

A week passes and his boredom and claustrophobia get to be nearly too much. That night, he breaks down, and begs Elias to let him out. "No Jon, not yet. I'll tell you when you're ready." 

The next morning he refuses to get out of bed to join Elias for breakfast, and Jon ends up shoved into the bathroom without even getting dressed. He ends up breaking his drinking mug in a fit of temper worthy of a storm. By the time he’s done, it, several floor tiles, and a small mirror are shattered on the ground. He spends the rest of the day curled up in a ball in the bottom of the unfilled tub, frustrated at both Elias and himself. When his husband finally gets home, Jon refuses to leave the tub, refuses to uncurl from his position, refuses to even speak or look at him.

If Elias is going to continue being needlessly cruel, refusing him comfort or any form of entertainment even when Jon has done what has been asked of him, then he will just ignore him. Even if it means skipping mealtimes. Jon has gone longer without food, a few days to make a point will be nothing.

Elias lets him sleep in the empty tub.

After two days, Elias cleans up the broken mess Jon made on the floor and tries to lecture him. Jon doesn’t acknowledge it. He keeps his head tucked tight into his knees and his arms wrapped tight around himself. His stomach rumbles, but Jon ignores it, even when Elias leaves an apple and two oranges on the counter by the sink. 

The evening of the third day of their standoff—during which the two oranges, but not the apple, have disappeared in a fit of weakness—Elias comes in holding a plate of fish and vegetables that smells tempting, and holds it out like a peace offering. Jon uncurls just enough to look up at it distrustfully, but Elias pulls it out of reach and says, "you can have this if you listen to what I have to say, alright?"

The hunger that Jon has been ignoring roars into his awareness, and he crumbles. He mumbles an angry "fine," and accepts the plate. The first bite breaks down all of his reservations, and he eats it at a furious, wild pace. Elias waits until Jon is done, and then takes the plate, gently setting it aside so he can have Jon's full attention. 

"I know this week has been hard on both of us," Elias says, kindly, and Jon snorts in derision. Elias continues on steadily, as if he hadn't heard Jon. "You might not think it’s true, but it is. I don't like having to lock up someone who should be my partner, Jon, and I've missed having you in our room at night. I didn’t want to have to take these steps, but your behavior forced me to. Make this easier on both of us. Promise not to destroy  _ our _ home. Can you do that?"

Jon pauses a moment. Being locked in here has been hell, and a part of him longs to just give in and tell Elias what he wants to hear. But his instinctual hatred still bristles hot in his stomach. Jon scowls and says, "I can't promise you anything."

Elias looks disappointed, but not surprised. "Very well," he says, and pushes himself up. "Think about it a little more. I would rather not have to keep you locked up forever." 

He leaves Jon there to stew in his words, angry, but still torn between his options. He doesn't want to give in, but his little hunger strike has proven terribly ineffective, leaving Jon the loser here. He still has some dignity left, so he stays where he is, dozing in the too cold tub rather than buried under his soft, warm blanket **.**

After Elias leaves for work the next day, his words haunt Jon. He could honestly care less about Elias missing him, but the notion of making this all  _ easier _ sticks in Jon's mind, looping and looping. 

He misses the books, and the blankets, and the easy access to food. He misses having the full run of the house. Before it had felt like a prison, now it seems like a wide and wonderful possibility. Out there, at least, he has a chance of finding something that might help him find a way out. 

Worst of all, and he hates to admit this even to himself, part of him misses Elias. He still hates the man, more than anything, but he’s been distant over the last few days. Elias has been leaving him almost entirely alone, skipping even the kisses the man himself had bargained for. It's been four days since any physical contact of any kind, and Jon is  _ missing _ it more than he thought he would.

If he gives in and agrees, it will mean admitting defeat, but Elias is right. He’s trapped here for the foreseeable future. There’s no point in not making this easier. He sighs, recognising his decision. It could be worse, all things considered.

When Elias unlocks the door that night to let him out, Jon is sitting in the tub, already preparing to speak. He shuts his mouth abruptly when he notices that Elias carries a small black box and a strange look in his eyes. He kneels down in front of the tub, coming to eye level with Jon, and sighs a little, twisting the box in his hands. He looks sheepish, Jon realises, and that catches him off guard. 

"Jon, I want to apologise to you." Jon stares, uncurling slightly, to eye Elias over. He is not the sort to apologize without ulterior motive.

"For what?" Jon asks, suspicious.

"For not realising the main issue with our relationship sooner." Jon stares at Elias, an incredulous expression on his face. The tub faucet drips and hits the surface of the water. Jon says nothing, and Elias takes that as his cue to continue.

"I realised that I, despite my words, haven't been thinking of you as my husband as I should be. It was unfair of me to expect you to act like a human when I myself was treating you like a pet. I endeavour, going forward, to change that and start treating you more like the permanent companion I truly want you to be. I know you might not trust that, but let me prove myself. I want you to marry me."

"We  _ are _ married," Jon says, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. He isn't sure if it has more to do with the speech or the fact that he doesn't  _ want _ to be married to Elias and the human doesn't seem to get that.

Elias sighs a little, fondly. "We might be married according to your standards, but we are not according to human ones. I'm offering you a more equal  _ human _ wedding." 

"How can you claim you want something equal when you have me locked up like this?" Jon asks, cautiously, watching Elias' hands as they fiddle with the little box. 

That's when Elias opens the box to reveal a dark gold ring, plain but pretty. Jon is taken by the shine, it reminds him of the sunlight on water. He has to force himself to pull his gaze away from it to look Elias in the eye, who seems utterly pleased at Jon's reaction. 

"A ring?" Jon asks, incredulous. That coy little smile plays on Elias lips again.

"Yes. To symbolise this new step in our marriage, and the fact that I promise never to lock you up again. Go on Jon, put it on." Elias holds the box out to him and Jon plucks the ring out to peer closer at it. It's heavy, but still lovely. Elias points at a finger, and Jon slides it on with little fanfare, just to try it. It fits perfectly.

"See, I'm even wearing my own," Elias says, holding out his hand to show Jon his own ring. It matches Jon's perfectly. The selkie finds a strange emotion swelling in his chest. He would have called it fondness if it were directed at anyone other than Elias.

“You promise not to lock me up anymore?” Jon stares at the ring on his finger, dark gold against dark skin. He’d already made his decision before Elias came in, but he’s been burned before by human promises. “No chains?”

“I don’t believe in chaining up a husband,” Elias says, the hint of humor in his voice not chasing out the sincerity, “unless he asks for it.”

Jon nods, unsure of what he means but keeping focused on what is truly important.

"I won't destroy the house anymore, not if you treat me correctly," Jon says, a sort of promise of his own for Elias. The selkie meets his husband's eyes briefly before he drops them, considering this situation. He allows himself a bit of hope that this arrangement will allow Jon even more freedom then what Elias had previously given him. They're supposed to be more equal, right?

"Thank you, Jon," Elias says, lifting Jon's chin up so he can look him in the eye. The movement is hesitant, gentle, Elias' finger and thumb so warm after what feels like a cold spell. It makes Jon suddenly flush, makes the small ache in his chest begin to unwind. The other hand settles just at the nape of his neck, soft, fingertips just brushing the wild tangle of curls. For once, it doesn't feel patronising or threatening. 

In the strange moment lingering between them, Jon makes a small concession, a show of good faith. He leans forward, shifting quietly through the water, and tilts his forehead down invitingly for the goodnight kiss he’s avoided these past few days. Elias’ hand on his neck tightens slightly, pulling Jon’s head back up to meet his eyes. The bath water is freezing cold and their faces are close enough that Jon can feel the warm puff of Elias’ breath.

Jon slides forward and kisses him properly, just for a moment, a soft brush of lips that sends a sweet, subtle warmth dancing through his chest.

“Come back to our bedroom, Jon,” Elias says, smiling with a helpless affection. “I’ve missed you.”

Jon stands from the tub, letting the water pour from his shoulders, and catches a look at himself in the mirror. His skin looks drawn and unhealthy, and there’s still hunger behind his seal-dark eyes. He holds up his left hand and watches the ring for a moment, admiring how the light sets it faintly glowing.

“Yes,” he agrees softly, “I missed it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, wedding up! And We'll finally get to some of the sections we wrote early on. 
> 
> Come talk to us! Yell at us about Elias or Jon! We welcome it. :)


	9. Bluebells and Buttercream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings ought to be simple. Elias disagrees.

“It’s called a _taste_ test for a reason, Jon,” Elias says, humor curling through his voice. Jon flicks his eyes up from his position bent over, sniffing at a piece of fluffy chocolate cake, and marvels for a second at the warmth of Elias’ smile. He’s been like this ever since Jon agreed to marry him “properly”. Jon sticks his tongue out cautiously and licks up a dab of the dark frosting. It’s sweet and thick against his throat.

Elias snorts and covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide the barefaced amusement that undercuts the stern way he holds a fork out to Jon. _Like a person, Jon_. 

Jon finds wedding planning terribly strange. Elias has been doing most of it out of the house, making decisions and arrangements that Jon only gets hints of from the papers Elias brings home or the stories he tells over dinner. Sometimes, Jon sits on the couch, and watches Elias pace through the kitchen speaking sternly over the phone about flowers or invitations or place cards. It all seems so unnecessarily _complicated_. So much stress and planning for an event that should only require one thing; the one thing Elias and Jon don’t have. Maybe that’s why he’s so desperate to hide it behind flowers.

Jon dutifully eats the cake with a fork.

“So?” Elias taps his pen against the order form in his hand, raising an eyebrow at Jon.

“I like chocolate,” Jon says, wondering if this intricate pre-wedding ritual Elias has put before him allows him to take more than one bite. He’s never tasted anything like chocolate before. It’s rich and textured and everything Jon always pictured the human world would be, strange and exotic and sweet.

“What do you think about the almond?” Elias points at the piece of cake on the far end.

“It’s...alright?”

“I think an almond cake at a wedding is very refined.”

Jon supposes Elias would know better than him what type of cake suits a human wedding. Selkie unions are so much simpler than all of this, and far less binding in spite of the affection and devotion behind them. But this wedding isn’t really about _Jon_. It’s about Elias, and his vision of their fairytale. So, Jon simply nods and watches with a strange detachment as that same joy sparks in Elias’ eyes. 

“Wonderful.” Elias steps around the table and presses a soft kiss to the top of Jon’s head. That is another thing that has been filling the space between his liberation from the bathroom and the impending wedding. _Kisses_. Lots of kisses, as if that moment they shared had broken a dam Jon hadn’t realized existed. Elias relaxed fully into a warm and coddling kind of affection. They still haven’t kissed on the lips again, but Elias seems determined to make up for his previous cold distance. It….hasn’t been _entirely_ unpleasant.

Jon still sleeps on the floor. 

*****

The days before the wedding pass in a blur of activity compared to the endless monotony of Jon’s imprisonment. By the time the day arrives, Jon is still struggling to come to terms with what he agreed to. It’s nothing but a ceremony, he reminds himself, staring into his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. They’re already bound together, this is merely symbolism and pageantry. A way for Elias to finally parade his prize in front of the world.

"Come here, Jon." Elias calls from the bedroom. 

Jon reaches out and presses the pads of his fingers to the cool glass of the mirror. Slowly, he traces the reflected line of his jaw. Did his mother think like this, when she lived trapped and stolen? Had her husband wanted to marry her, or simply been content to own her? Had he been delicate and soft like Elias’ hands, or cold and hungry like Elias’ eyes? When he was a child, Jon used to imagine that perhaps his father was kind, that his grandmother was mistaken, that his mother was simply happier away from them. He didn’t think that way anymore. 

_Like mother, like son_. Wouldn't his grandmother be so disappointed in him. He sighs, wondering if his grandmother will try to come find him, or just leave her foolish grandson to his fate, a punishment for disobeying her lessons. If she even _could_ find him this far inland. He chuckles bitterly. Jon had always been troublesome, a constant challenge for an already very old selkie to raise.

Marilla may not have looked old, but she was far beyond childrearing and she had already done her part in continuing her line. She shouldn't have had to do it _twice_. The terrible nature of humanity required her to do so, to bring her grandson into the sea and grant him his birthright. Two marks on her flesh, two generations, an honour and disgrace upon their line. Jon's mother hadn’t even been willing to pass on the Blessing to her own son.

But now, with just the smallest taste of the life his mother had lived, Jon understood why she had left him to his grandmother with a depth he wishes he didn't. It was far less cruel to grow up abandoned than born and raised in captivity.

"_Jon_." Elias’ voice is firmer this time, and Jon looks up to see him leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. He stares at Jon's long hair, before he catches his eyes. 

"Come now, we have little time for daydreaming. I still need to brush your hair and get you ready for the ceremony. The lawyer and the witnesses should be here in just over an hour so we can head to the church."

"I can do it myself," Jon mutters petulantly, looking down to the counter for his hairbrush and finding it empty. Another look at Elias shows that he has it grasped tightly in his left hand.

"It's my duty as your proper husband-to-be, Jon. Now, come _sit_."

The final _sit_ is very firm, like Jon is a poorly-trained dog.

"Soon to be _ex-husband_," Jon says, but follows his captor and groom out of the room anyway and sits in the spot Elias indicates. He still thinks this wedding is a foolish notion. Elias chuckles, and settles himself on the bed above Jon next to a small paper bag, the selkie caged between his legs. 

"Oh, I doubt that, Jon. We have more bonding us than mere vows. And you’ll find I have a tendency to grow on people."

Jon is rigid when Elias begins to brush, slowly, gently untangling the knots that plague Jon's hair even now that he's on land. It's...it's relaxing, more than he cares to admit, and the tension slowly begins to bleed from his shoulders. 

"You’ve read the stories,” Jon says, trying for intimidating but unable to keep a contented sigh out of his voice. “This all ends when I get _my_ skin back and return to the ocean.”

Jon’s eyes slide shut with the scrape of the brush against his scalp, the gentle movements like waves hitting the shore on calm nights. He doesn't fight like he should, like he _wants_ to, like he wishes he still did. It’s better not to hurt himself if he doesn’t need to.

When Elias puts the brush aside to run his nails through Jon's hair, he freezes up, cautious. His husband-to-be doesn't react, and only sighs a little, amused. He presses a kiss to the top of Jon's head.

"For someone who’s so clever, you really haven't fully grasped your situation, have you?"

The nails, satisfyingly rough, make Jon's scalp tingle, but the words are chilling enough to distract him. 

"And just what do you mean by that?" Jon tries to whip around to glare and snap at Elias, but is stopped short by the firm grasp, holding his head in place. 

"You know _exactly_ what I mean, Jon, now sit still and relax. You can plot against me later, if you insist, _after_ we are married properly, but today we're on a time limit." Elias sounds a little sharper, his grip still tight on Jon’s hair. Jon concedes after a moment, crossing his arms and scowling. 

Elias returns to the massage and Jon drops into a semi-relaxed state again, focusing only on the _scratch-scratch_ rather than the upcoming day and the threat of a forever with Elias hanging over his head.

When Elias finally pulls his hands away, Jon nearly whines at the loss of sensation. The brushing resumes, firmer, till his hair is tangle-free and silky. Jon can't help but admire how soft it is, catching the ends between his fingers. He finds himself smiling and quickly drops it from his face before Elias can notice.

Next, Elias pulls some of Jon's hair up with surprisingly talented fingers, braiding it into a small twisted crown of hair. Jon hears the crinkling of the paper bag and then feels the press of something light and sweet-smelling being woven into the orderly twists. Elias works in silence the entire time. Jon actually keeps still, curious, but holding his tongue.

"There," Elias says, sounding soft and pleased, "I've added bluebells, sweet williams, ivy, and a few purple carnations. I know this probably isn't too traditional for your kind, Jon, but I do hope you keep it in, at least until the wedding is over."

He hands Jon a mirror to admire the flowers woven into the silver and black. It's actually very nice, Jon has to admit. The purple and blues of the flowers blending nicely with the green of the ivy and the dark wave of his own hair and eyes. He wonders how long Elias spent watching him, picturing him in flowers. 

"It really isn't,” Jon says, his own voice soft and his eyes fixed upon the mirror, “but if you insist upon them."

"I do." Elias settles one hand on Jon's shoulder. It tightens a little, like it's trying to be reassuring, but instead comes out a bit like a threat.

Jon doesn't deign to reply to that, and pulls out of Elias' grip to turn and look at the man. The look on his face is strange, something pleased but dark. Not quite like a predator looking at prey, closer to seeing something trapped, pinned, to be watched and displayed. Jon shoves that awful thought away before he does something regrettable like break down and cry in front of Elias. He's so tired of feeling hunted. 

Elias seems to notice Jon's own firmly controlled expression and nods, pleased. He allows Jon to stand, running a gentle hand down the selkie's spine as he rises.

"Now," he says, standing himself and heading over to the closet, "this is what you'll be wearing, Jon." 

He pulls out a soft-looking suit in clean dark blue fabric. It's simple, but the colours hold a slight green iridescence that reminds Jon of the sea in a storm. It pulls at his heart and he can’t quite look away. Jon leans in and runs his fingers down the smooth sleeve and the edges of his shorn nails catch against a thin embroidery of waves, nearly invisible in blue on blue.

“I thought it would suit you,” Elias says gently. “Considering.”

Jon nods, mutely, too much caught up in his throat to try and parse through. He does want to wear it, damn the bastard, and Elias can probably read that Jon’s longing gaze. But when he looks up at Elias, his husband-to-be has turned away and is rooting through his own closet.

“And I will be wearing this.” Elias holds up in front of him a gorgeous suit, tailored and tucked and shimmering. The cloth is black mottled naturally with gray and threaded through with trails of silver and Jon chokes out a sob before he even processes why. His knees go weak and Elias strides forward and catches his arm in a firm grip to stop him from crumpling to the ground. 

“Are you alright, Jon?” Elias asks and Jon can hear the arrogant smirk in his voice. He knows. He _knows_. Jon reaches out one trembling hand and grabs the sleeve of Elias’ suit. It’s smooth and cold beneath his hand.

Fabric. Nothing but fabric.

“I just find this color so beautiful,” Elias is saying. Jon hears him distantly, through the rushing of blood in his ears. “I had to try it myself.”

The anger pours hot into him and Jon has to hold himself back from grabbing the suit and tearing it seam from seam. It is a cruelty beyond measure. It is an outrage. It is a reminder of everything Jon has lost. Those colors are _his_. That suit is exactly the color of the pelt Elias has stolen from him. 

"Isn't your symbolism a bit heavy-handed?" Jon growls, his expression dark, his words sharp, an edge of teeth hidden underneath. 

"Mmm, perhaps. But I rather liked the imagery all the same." Elias concedes, amused, but shrugs, "the colours suit both of us perfectly. Of that, I am not wrong." 

If Jon was free he would be anywhere but here, preparing for what was sure to be a miserable and humiliating ceremony. Seeing that suit reminds him of what he should be focusing on here. The wedding, the _kisses_, the fleeting moments of pleasant intimacy, they’re all a distraction. He had nearly lost all energy to search for his coat, but this indignity reignites his ever-present desire for escape. It’s not in the house, Jon’s quite sure of that now. He’s searched it top to bottom, and Elias is too smart to leave him alone here all day if the skin was easily accessible. Which meant that, more than likely, Jon’s skin was stashed away at that precious Institute Elias spent so much time at. He wouldn’t keep it somewhere he couldn’t consistently check on it, after all. All Jon needs is a way to get out of this house. 

"No." Jon admits, carefully neutral, unsure of what kind of punishment would come from tearing the suit to shreds on the day of their wedding. Perhaps the iron chains. His eyes are drawn endlessly back to the horribly familiar suit. Elias is right. It is beautiful. “You’re not wrong.”

The rest of the time goes quick enough, both of them dressing with different levels of speed and experience. Elias is nothing but quick, efficient movements, stopping only for a moment to check that everything is in place. Jon struggles with a few pieces of clothing, mainly the tie, subtly sea-patterned in blues of varying shades. 

"Elias…" he sighs, not wanting to admit that he needs help, but doing it all the same. His husband steps up, looks him over, and adjusts a few clothing lines here and there. It's almost nice, seeing Elias' bright smile when Jon's outfit looks sharp and perfectly arranged, but catching the shimmer of Elias’ seal-gray suit turns any joy to rage in Jon’s throat. He will not forget again. Elias easily does up Jon’s tie with a few smooth motions and the slide of satin on satin. 

Jon takes the moment to study Elias' face. It’s focused, holding that spark of pleasure and affection Jon's grown used to, like Elias is working on a masterpiece. When the man steps back, Jon is tempted to fidget with the tie, pull it looser. It feels distressingly like a collar. Elias' tie, he notes, is covered in small, subtle eyes. 

"_Really_?" Jon asks, head shaking as he heads to the mirror to admire himself. 

"Yes, _really_." Elias sidles up alongside Jon to admire them both. "You look wonderful in that outfit, Jon. Sharp. The flowers really bring it together."

Jon has to admit that yes, he does. It almost feels nice to be cloaked in the colours of the sea. Maybe, just maybe, he won't be tempted to rip this clothing up afterwards. It's nice against his fingertips too, soft, almost as soft as his missing skin. He's not surprised, not with Elias' tastes.

It will have to do for now.

For all that the flowers were at the insistence of Elias, he really _does_ like them. They soften the scars he has on his face, making him look kinder and more like the selkie bride the legends imagine. He brushes his fingers against one of the petals and smiles a little. 

"They remind me of..." the memory catches on Jon's tongue, of a wedding he witnessed once when he was young. 

It was on a boat, just off Bournemouth's shore, the bride and groom looking regal on the high ship. The bride, beautiful, with the same large sad eyes that their kind tended to have, watched her groom with something like joy. Jon had seen her around after that, lingering near the seashore and smelling of sea and salt in ways that could not just be a result of the ocean nearby. 

He often wondered how she was doing. She had seemed pleased, happy at the time, but now all Jon could think is _where was her skin?_

"...nothing," he said, with a quiet sigh.

Elias does not press further for the ending of that thought. Instead, he rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder and asks, "are you ready?" 

Jon shakes his head. "If I say no, will you give me my coat back?" The look he gives Elias is flat and sardonic.

Elias reaches out and tugs a bit on Jon’s sleeve, straightening the fabric. “Rule one, Jon.”

“Right, right.” Jon steps back, away. “You don’t repeat yourself. Then how about you stop wasting my time with questions I don’t actually get to answer and we get this unnecessary wedding over with.” 

"It might not be necessary, but we may as well do this properly, hm? Balance the books. Besides, I rather _like_ weddings." Elias has an amused little sparkle in his eye, and only after another quick check over does he motion for Jon to follow him downstairs. Jon takes one last look at the room, eyes lingering a bit too long on his nest on the floor, then on that closed door to his temporary prison. 

He can't help but wonder, with something like resignation burning low in his chest, if Elias had ever truly sacrificed anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a fun mini-game in it where you can tell which of us was last to edit a section based on how we spell "color". Ah the international divide XD
> 
> As usual thank you all so much for reading and especially for commenting!! Your responses bring us life. I hope you're all excited for the most romantic wedding ever :) Come talk to us on tumblr!!!! 
> 
> See you next Tuesday!


	10. The Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns a bit about Elias’ past.

Jon drags his steps as they walk into the small chapel Elias set up last night. There wasn’t much to it. Two lovely bouquets of blue and purple flowers, each with a few soft yellow ones, flank a small altar at the end of rows of pews, and a third sits on a small table near the entrance, next to an open, empty book and a delicate, silver pen. Both the altar and the signing station are adorned with a single, silver candlestick. When Jon pokes at one to inspect it, the metal burns his hand. Elias pats his stinging flesh and smiles.

“Careful,” he says, unhelpfully. “Iron.” 

Last night, when Elias had gathered the decorations together, Jon hadn’t considered them much. He had been more excited about finally being able to leave the house, even if it was for a less than happy occasion. The moment he’d gotten with the wind on his face had been far too brief before Elias had complained about being late and hurried him into the car. Now that he’s here, though, he stoops to study the signing pen. Almost predictably, it's made of a very nice silver. It doesn't burn when Jon touches it, which is a strange relief. All along the sides, there are small carved-in eyes, with gemstones inlaid for the pupils. They glint, the colour of the sea in the morning. Jon aches to think about it. 

Jon inspects the candlesticks, too, taking care not to touch them again. They look strange, and  _ old.  _ The tarnish they’d had when Elias brought them home several nights ago had been entirely cleaned away. They too are covered in eyes, pretty gems of all colours making up the center of each. Jon cannot help but shudder when he looks at them, the lingering sensation of being watched and picked apart hanging over him, and intensifying the longer he admires them. 

Elias seems to be watching him too, judging by the way the hairs rise on his neck and Jon turns, abruptly annoyed. "What?" He demands, and Elias smiles fondly and shakes his head. 

"Those are very old," he tells Jon, coming over to admire them himself. He runs a finger over them reverently, and looks up to meet his groom's eyes, "they're very special, too. I dug them out of storage just for today."

Jon narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to ask just what makes them so special, when the distant sound of a door opening cuts through the chapel. Elias leaves to fetch their guests, smirking in a way that leaves Jon feeling that Elias knows exactly what Jon wanted to ask. For a man who so loves knowledge, he sure hates answering questions. Jon, left alone now, glances briefly at the cherry-red wooden boxes marked  _ artefact storage _ tucked away under the table. The candlesticks had come in them, but even with them removed Jon is still uncomfortably aware of their presence. He doesn't want to think too hard about the feeling of eyes lingering even after Elias leaves. After a moment’s hesitation, he decides it’s best to ignore them.

The flowers, at least, are beautiful. His fingers hesitantly brush over the pale yellow ones Elias called jonquils as he admires them. They're strangely delicate next to the purple carnations that accompany them, and remind him of sunlight shining just below the surface. There are a few others mixed in that Jon doesn’t recognize and Elias hasn’t explained, and Jon decides to ask about them later. He really is fond of the stalks of blue flowers that remind him of little bells. There's so many of the tiny flowers on one that he plucks a few off and tucks them into his hair.

From down the hall, Jon can hear Elias returning, alongside three new voices. One, masculine and cold, gives Jon shivers just listening to it. Another is almost as chilly, but higher and no nonsense. The third has a strange whimsicality to it, reminding Jon of the wind just as it threatens to turn stormy. Elias' sea-rumble voice is among them, explaining the itinerary for the day. 

Jon is frozen to the spot as they come in, a strange spark of nerves keeping him still. Like the coming of thunder, the air around the guests smells of ozone and fog. His instincts say to  _ hide, _ find a safe cave and hope they do not notice him, and that disturbs Jon in a way he cannot explain. Just who are these people?

The first one, following behind Elias, is a very old man, who Jon can only describe as a pink, wrinkled,  _ creature.  _ He's dressed in a suit as blue and as bright as the sky, with little uneven lines of yellow and white thread interwoven. The smile on his face is wide, almost too much, and the baring of his teeth feels less friendly and more like a threat. Something about him sets Jon on edge, like he expects a crack of lightning and the sky to open up right in the church.

It takes a second for his senses to make a proper picture. This man walks the Path of the Endless, Jon realizes, and he suddenly aches, reminded sharply of home.

The other two, an older, strict looking man, and a woman, waif thin, follow after. They both feel... _ off, _ to Jon, chilly and like they could simply melt away. They bear a familial resemblance, the same sharp chin and thin nose, and their sternness reminds him of his grandmother. Their clothes are formal, but a matching almost washed-out gray. They're unsettling, distant, and feel... _ Abandoned. _

__

"Jon," Elias says, smiling as he indicates their guests, "this is Simon Fairchild, Nathaniel Lukas, and Anne Lukas. Anne will be acting as our officiant, and Simon and Nathaniel as our witnesses."

__

"It's...it's pleasant to meet you all," Jon says, and Simon's grin grows wider somehow. The small man comes forward to shake Jon's hand with an enthusiasm that the selkie can't match. 

__

"Well, well, well! How wonderful to meet the new groom! Hey Elias," he turns to address Elias over his shoulder, still holding Jon's hand, "how long will this one last, six months tops? At least until that Peter of yours gets back ashore, right?"

__

Jon's blood freezes at the words, and he hardly notices the glare Elias gives the man. Jon frees his hand from the surprisingly firm grip, cradles his ringed hand close to his chest, and meets Elias' now calculating gaze with a sharp glare.

__

Jon wants to ask, his thoughts twisting in vicious circles around the word  _ yours. _ He bites his tongue, though, almost enough to bleed. Not in front of these people and the power that hangs in the air around them. The only sign that Elias' shares his discomfort is a twist at the corner of his mouth, and the slight clenching of his jaw.

__

"Simon, please. Let’s not live in the past. Today is about Jon and I." Elias’ glare at Simon is cold and firm. 

__

Simon chuckles and raises his hands in casual surrender. “Of course, of course, forgive an old man his memory. All these weddings, you can’t expect them not to blur together.” 

__

Jon’s is pulled away from Elias’ eyes on Simon by the cold weight of the older Lukas' attention settling on him. He catches a disappointed half glance, Nathaniel’s eyes skimming over him, before he turns away entirely and addresses Elias with a clipped and unimpressed tone.

__

"A little scrawny, Elias. It doesn't seem to have much potential. I was hoping for something that would explain your recent divorce of my nephew, but this  _ thing  _ hardly seems worth our time."

__

The heat of anger burns away the chill that had settled in his chest.  _ Thing. _ He had referred to him as a _ thing.  _ Elias seems to notice and, with an apologising look at Jon, he turns to the Lukases. "I assure you,  _ he _ is well worth your time."

__

Before Jon can object to being talked over like some kind of object, a snarl on his face and teeth bared, Simon slips Jon's arm through his and twists him away from the conversation. Jon wants to resist, but the sheer amount of power rolling off of not only Simon but the entire room keeps him from pulling away, despite the anger in his chest. He decides not to fight it, just casts a glance over his shoulder at Elias who has turned to talk with Nathaniel. Before he looks away again, he catches Anne giving him an almost approving look. 

__

"Don't worry about them, my boy! They're just picky, cold bastards who wouldn't know interesting if it hit them on the nose. So, Elias tells me you're a selkie? Your kind certainly are  _ interesting. _ Seem like they would belong to the Falling Titan, if anything."

__

The little man is so chatty, it takes Jon a moment to catch his breath and meaning. Of course Elias told them he’s a selkie. They probably all know Jon is being forced, captive against his will, and none of them  _ care. _ A piece of hope Jon hadn’t realized he was holding sinks in his chest. He’ll find no allies here. 

__

"We don't  _ belong _ to anyone," Jon says, a vicious bite in his tone. Simon doesn't look offended, to Jon's disappointment. If anything, he looks even more delighted. 

__

"Oh, that's right! I remember now, your kind follow...paths, correct?" 

__

"...yes," Jon confirms, more confused now, and still wondering how this man knows so much. Simon continues to lead him away. He has a devious grin, toothy and wide. Jon's instincts tell him to run, but Simon's grip is surprisingly strong.

__

"Where  _ are _ we going?" Jon asks, feet practically dragging the carpet as he's pulled by the jovial old man. 

__

"I'm going to give you a gift, of course!"

__

Jon is  _ instantly _ suspicious, but mostly just confused. "What is it?" He asks, cautious, hesitant. Simon lets go of his arm and looks around. He seems to find, or  _ not _ find, what he's looking for. He turns his attention back to Jon.

__

“Come come come come come, it’s a  _ secret _ selkie boy,” Simon says, patting insistently at Jon’s shoulders until he moves along in the proper direction toward a small door leading to an empty room.

__

“Why can’t you give it to me out here?” Jon protests, looking back over his shoulder at the rest of the wedding party who are speaking together in hushed tones.

__

“Because I don’t want  _ Elias _ to see you have it, of course. Your eyes only.”

__

That piques Jon’s interest and he moves with more purpose towards the door, slipping inside. The room is dark, lit only by the daylight filtering in through stained glass. In the center, a long, dark oak table sits silently. Simon closes the door behind them, eyes sparkling with amusement, and leans against the table.

__

“I’ve been around long enough to know you don’t show up to a wedding without a gift,” Simon begins, “so I brought you something very powerful and very special.”

__

He gestures for Jon to hold out his hands and Jon eagerly does so. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Simon produces a small plastic dome. It is entirely clear, and through the outer bubble Jon can see a picture of a deserted beach, waves lapping up against pale sand. Simon puts it in his hands and it’s heavier than he anticipated, resting solidly in his grasp.

__

“Go on,” Simon says, unhelpfully.

__

Jon pulls the small plastic dome up closer to his face, peering in at the frozen scene inside. Even this small, poor rendering of the ocean fills his heart with a tight longing, and he sniffs at it, hoping that perhaps it holds more secrets than originally assumed. Nothing, though, just cold dead plastic.

__

“What does it—” he begins to ask, before he twists it experimentally and watches a swirling wave of white specks rise slowly over the scene, glittering and flashing in a mesmerizing pattern before settling again to the beach floor. Jon cannot tear his eyes away, entirely entranced.

__

“It’s called a snow globe.” Simon steps forward and plucks it lightly out of Jon’s grasp. He shakes it vigorously, setting the white snow inside to whirl and dance, before placing it back in Jon’s hands. He chuckles a bit at Jon’s wide eyed fascination. “A very clever invention. I adore them. Like the world in a bottle.”

__

“What does it do?” Jon asks, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. It looks like a portal, like a gateway back to the sea, but that is foolish. 

__

“It reminds you of things. The places you’ve been.” Simon perches on the edge of the table and kicks his legs absentmindedly. “How funny, though. That one doesn’t say where it’s from. I bought it on an island to remember my time there, and now I’ve quite forgotten the island and only remember the snow globe. Perhaps you will find it one day, the island, and remind me.”

__

Jon stares into the ocean in the snow globe. “It reminds me of home.”

__

“Memories are important, my boy. Life is long and the world is wide. You mustn’t lose track of what’s important.”

__

_ What’s important. _ Jon thinks of the soft feeling of his pelt against his skin. The memory feels so distant, like another lifetime. He thinks of the wide, dark ocean which has become more of a longing than a goal. He clutches the snow globe to his chest.

__

“I will keep it safe.”

__

“Good good,” Simon pats him on the shoulder a few times. “And tell that Elias of yours that if he wants presents that aren’t just random chachkies off my shelves he ought to give more than three days notice before a wedding, eh?”

__

Jon turns to face Simon, staring purposefully into his cloudy gray eyes. It's a bit difficult, with that sense of power coming off the man. “Can I ask you a question about him? About his institute?”

__

“Ah yes, it’s a dreadful place, that. Gives me the creepy crawlies, worse than filth even in some ways. It parades as a research organization but of course it’s actually a temple to the Ceaseless Watcher, what I believe your kind call—“

__

“The Unblinking,” Jon whispers.

__

Simon sighs dreamily. “So pretty. I  _ adore _ those little names of yours. I met one of your kind, once, you know. Had the exact same eyes as you. Dark and distant, always seeing something far, far away. Absolutely beautiful, she was. I  _ do _ hope she made it out.”

__

The Unblinking is dangerous, his grandmother always warned him, most selkies who follow it never return to the sea. Their curiosity drives them to their capture or their death. Jon swallows. He hopes she made it out too. “It must be well guarded, then.”

__

“Getting in isn’t the hard part, it's trying to do anything inside without those dreadful eyeballs knowing about it.”

__

“But there must be some kind of blind spot,” Jon says, leaning forward eagerly.

__

Simon frowns. “Now, now, I don’t think that’s something Elias would appreciate me telling you. I’ve been best man at his last three weddings, and I’d like to keep my spot.”

__

Jon nearly keens with aggravation at both Simon and Elias, but he holds it in, pushing desperation into his voice. “You can’t really be on his side. He is forcing me into this, holding me  _ captive, _ locking me up every day inside his house to pace myself mad.”

__

Simon’s mouth twists in consternation and then breaks into a cheery grin. “Oh all right, but you’ll have to tell me some about the ocean in return. It’s beautiful, and vast, and I don’t think I’ve ever properly understood it.”

__

Jon clutches the snow globe tighter. “I don’t know if anyone has.”

__

Simon must appreciate the longing awe in his voice, because he smiles wider and winks, as if letting Jon in on a secret. His voice drops to a dramatic stage whisper. “Now Elias has lots of eyes, that’s true, more than the average, but he’s still just a human inside. And humans are quite bad at multitasking.”

__

“Multitasking?” Jon furrows his brow. “Wait, do you mean—“

__

“Ah Jonathan, so this is where you got off to.” The door doesn’t make a sound as Elias swings it open and strides purposefully in. Jon shoves the snow globe guiltily into the breast pocket of his suit, stepping quickly back from Simon. Simon, for his part, doesn’t look aggrieved at all. He pops to his feet and slings a familiar arm around Jon’s shoulders, ignoring the way he tenses, and stares up at Simon in panic.

__

“Oh no, Elias, how could you interrupt me while I’m in the middle of seducing your adorable new husband?”

__

Elias’ gaze is withering, clearly not entertained. 

__

“Oh come on,” Simon continues, “I didn’t get a shot at that last selkie, can’t I have this one?”

__

_ "She _ was already spoken for,” Elias says, his voice like ice. He takes a step forward and grabs Jon’s arm, tugging him forward out of Simon’s grip so that he stumbles and lands on Elias’ broad chest. “And this one is  _ mine." _

__

“Shucks,” Simon says with a grin, snapping his fingers. “Better luck next time, I guess. See you, selkie boy.”

__

Jon turns his head against Elias’ chest just enough to see Simon shoot him one last gratuitous wink before he strides cheerfully out of the room. Elias slides an arm around Jon’s back, keeping him pressed in close, and buries his face in Jon’s hair. Anger spills hot into Jon’s chest and he pushes against Elias, breaking from his embrace.

__

“I’m not  _ yours." _

__

The look Elias gives him is fondly exasperated. He reaches out for Jon's hand, but the selkie pulls back, snarling.

__

“Of course you are, Jonathan, and I’m yours. That’s what marriage means.”

__

“Oh, as if you know what  _ marriage _ means,” Jon snaps, folding his arms so that Elias can’t grab at him. Elias tilts his head and makes an expression of such genuine confusion that Jon almost wants to believe him.

__

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Jon.” 

__

“Don’t play dumb. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

__

“Jon—” 

__

“What number is this for you, Elias?” Jon flings his arms out wide, viciously. “Four?  _ Five?  _ No wonder you were so quick to marry me, considering it means  _ nothing _ to you. Did you even buy a new ring?”

__

“Of course I did. Jonathan, listen to me—” Elias tries to place a hand calmly on Jon’s shoulder, but the selkie recoils like he’s been burned, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.

__

“No.  _ No. _ You don’t get to do this to me.”

__

“I didn’t—”

__

“You don’t  _ get it. _ This is  _ everything _ to me. You get your job and your friends and your life and to leave the house every day and all I get is  _ this. _ Promises and the leftover scraps of other men’s happiness you deign to throw at my feet. This is all I  _ get _ and you don’t even  _ care." _ Jon fumbles through his tear-blind eyes to grab at the ring Elias gave him and try and tug it from his finger.

__

“Jonathan, stop.” Elias’ hands grip tight around Jon’s, squeezing his fingers down around the ring before he can take it off. “Look at me.”

__

Jon sniffles against the inexplicable tears he hadn’t meant to cry and shakes his head. 

__

Elias’ clipped voice softens, tender. “Look at me, love.”

__

Jon turns his watery eyes up and meets Elias’ gaze. The dimly filtered light that comes through the stained glass windows catches in the blue of his eyes, and Jon is lost, briefly, in their depth.

__

“This is my fault,” Elias whispers. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I should have been more upfront.” 

__

Jon tosses his head angrily, a few stray tears running down his face. His head feels thick and heavy. “You make it look so easy.  _ Pretending _ to be in love. I should have guessed you’d had practice.”

__

“I have been nothing but honest with you. I can’t stop you from making unfounded assumptions, but everything I’ve said, every...feeling I’ve intimated, they’ve all been genuine, Jon. I want to be with you. Forever, if I can. In every way we can be.”

__

“But, the others...”

__

“Other. Singular. I’ve been married three times to the same man. I should have told you but I didn’t want to sour our festivities with talk of... _ him." _ Jon peeks over from the corner of his eyes and almost loses his anger at the sight of Elias’ expression. Like someone sucking a sour grape, wrinkled forehead and pursed lips. “He wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted. Not until I met you.”

__

Elias slides one of his hands from holding Jon’s around to the small of his back, pulling him closer. Jon turns towards him, their faces far too close for him to keep focus on why he was angry. He clutches for it desperately, like a wave he wants to keep pinned to the sand. 

__

“I thought this would be  _ special," _ Jon says, quietly, both for their proximity and because of the scratchy threat of more tears in his throat. “I thought this, at least, would be  _ mine. _ But it’s all been for you, hasn’t it? Parade me in front of your friends like a new toy.”

__

“Don’t mind them. They’re nobody. You’re more important than all of them.”

__

“Elias...”

__

“Peter never had this. This ceremony. Not like this. All the times we were married, we were never married like this. It’s just for you, Jon.”

__

Jon frowns, trying to ignore the shiver of a blush working its way up his face. Elias leans in even closer, nudging slightly at Jon’s nose until he tilts his head so that their mouths are scarce inches apart. When Elias speaks, Jon can feel the warm puffs of his breath on his lips.

__

“There is so much more bonding us than you know, Jon. And once you understand, once you’ll come back to me of your own free will, I want you to have your coat. I’ll give it back to you. I only desire to see you happy, Jon. To give you everything.”

__

Something trembles inside Jon, and he wavers, his lips inching closer to and then farther from Elias’. What if this is the best he ever gets? At least...at least it’s a  _ potential _ for freedom. At least it’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

__

“Promise,” Jon demands, letting his eyes slide shut.

__

“I swear it.”

__

Jon leans forward into Elias, but his lips are stopped by a cool finger pressed against them. 

__

“Now now,” Elias chides fondly as Jon opens his eyes and blinks, bleary and confused. “Let’s save it for the altar.” 

He smiles in that way that never fails to twist Jon’s stomach, and brushes away the tears still rolling down Jon’s face. Gently, Elias lifts Jon’s knuckles to his mouth, and presses a soft kiss to the golden ring on Jon’s finger. Jon closes his eyes, and tries to ignore the painful throbbing of his heart. 

__


	11. Eyes Unclouded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets his fate, blindfolded.

The blindfold is a deep green velvet, and Elias ties it on too tight. Jon hears the faint crush of petals breaking in his hair as Elias’ fingers twist and knot the fabric, securing it around Jon’s eyes. The fingers trail down, curling softly in the wisp of hair at the nape of Jon’s neck, gliding lightly against his delicate skin, until Jon shivers at the ticklish sensation. Blind as he is, Jon can feel every hair on his body raise, reaching out for the touch that he cannot anticipate.

But nothing comes. Jon stands, shaking, expectant, in the dark, until he realizes suddenly that he can no longer feel Elias’ body heat. He hadn’t heard any footsteps pressing into the soft plush of the reception room’s carpet, but the warm orange and sandalwood of Elias’ cologne is already fading in the still, silent air. Something seizes in Jon’s chest and he reaches instinctively to remove the blindfold in his panic, but he stops.

Elias had said it was important. He wouldn’t just leave him here, blind and alone, not right before their wedding. It’s too _important_. Elias had looked him in the eyes and told Jon he was special. Maybe he's a special kind of fool for believing him. He stretches his arms out in front of him, feeling for any obstacles, and takes a hesitant step forward.

“Elias? Are you still there?” Jon swallows down against the cracking in his voice. “Elias?”

Warm hands catch his own and Jon fights against his instinctive sigh of relief as Elias steps close. Jon grabs at his wrist, making sure he cannot pull away again.

“Hush, don’t worry, Jon. I didn’t realize you had such separation anxiety.” Jon can hear the smile in Elias’ voice.

“In case you hadn’t realized, you left me blindfolded.”

“I know it’s not the most pleasant way to be, but it’s merely temporary. There’s no need to fret.”

“Fret?” Jon echoes, disbelieving. He resists for a moment as Elias pries his hand away from his tight grip on Elias’ wrist, but finally relents.

“I’ve heard plenty of brides get nervous butterflies on their big day,” Elias continues, maneuvering Jon’s hands until he feels the insides of his wrists pressing smooth against each other. “But I can assure you it’s nothing to be scared of.”

Jon can’t help the harsh laugh that claws its way out of him. He can feel the soft slide of velvet as Elias begins to wind another long strip around Jon’s wrists, looping it over and over until they are bound together so tightly that Jon probably couldn’t pull them apart if he tried. He doesn’t try.

Elias’ whisper is warm and wet in Jon’s ear. “You look so _beautiful_ like this.”

Jon leans his blushing face away from where Elias’ voice is coming from, and he feels the ghost of Elias’ lips press into the exposed side of his throat. He breathes in the familiar scent and pulls instinctively at the bindings on his wrists. 

_This is what I am now_, he thinks. _This is what I’ve been this whole time_.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone again,” Jon says, trying and failing to keep his tone biting.

“Never.” Elias’ hand falls to the small of his back, and Jon feels his own hands dip a bit as Elias presumably tugs on some kind of lead. Jon tightens his hands into fists. “Shall we?”

There are a thousand things Jon wants to say instead of _yes_, but none of them would change anything. So he nods, and in the darkness of his blindfold, he can see nothing but the endless devotion in Elias’ eyes when he promised to give Jon everything.

***

The walk to the altar seems impossibly long, but he has no other choice besides trusting Elias’ hand on his back as he guides them where they need to go. He feels the prickle of eyes on him, and he wonders how he must look to them, small and scarred and trussed up, obviously uncomfortable in his formal clothes next to Elias who is as prim and perfect as always. Jon scowls, and it doesn’t fix anything.

Finally, they stop, Elias’ grip tightening almost imperceptibly on Jon’s back to bring him to a halt.

“We are gathered today,” says a clear, female voice, and Jon realizes it must be the voice of the younger Lukas girl, Anne. The officiant, Elias had said. “In the eyes of gods and mortals and those between, to see the joining in eternal bond of one Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, and one Jonathan Sims, selkie child of the Flesh. You enter here today as two, unchained by obligations, known and owned only by the paths you choose. You will leave here united as one, to face the world together with eyes unclouded. May you witness together a thousand dawns. May you be known in the eyes of your beloved as you are in the eyes of The Watcher. May you together, from this day forward, never be blind again.”

Elias’ hand falls away from Jon’s back, and he hears him draw in a deep breath. Jon already misses having his hand there, grounding him.

“Elias, as you have promised to guide and to teach, please always bring sight to your beloved.”

Jon feels Elias’ quick fingers tug at the knot of his blindfold and then it falls away. He blinks a few times, readjusting to the soft light of the chapel. The first thing he sees is Anne, draped in formal-looking robes, holding a thick tome in front of her with wrinkled, yellowed pages. The altar she stands behind is a plain, dark wood, adorned with the two bouquets of blue and purple flowers and a single iron candlestick decorated in eyes. A pale, tallow candle sits in it, unlit. 

Anne looks away from Jon and turns again to Elias, her warm smile bleeding into her voice. Jon can't help but marvel at the contrast between it and the cold power still lingering around her.

“Elias, as you have promised to free your beloved from the shackles of ignorance, please always lead him into understanding.” 

Jon catches Elias’ eye as he steps forward to unwrap the velvet bonds holding Jon’s wrists together. They watch each other quietly as Elias very slowly winds the fabric around and around. Jon doesn’t move his hands, not even when he feels the cord go slack. Elias is the first to break their eye contact, leaving Jon wavering, as he turns back to face Anne and nod slightly. 

She closes the book, but keeps a finger slotted inside to mark her page. “Elias, I believe you prepared your own vows?”

Elias takes Jon’s hand in his own and brings it up to his chest, pushing it in tight until Jon can feel the distant beat of his heart through the backs of his fingers.

“Jonathan.” 

Everything in Jon tells him not to look. That he will _regret_ it. But still, he turns his face towards Elias and looks him dead in the eyes. Every word Elias says drips like honey down Jon’s back, twists in and out of his lungs like smoke. He drinks them all in, every single one, like a man starving. 

“Ever since I first beheld you, I knew that you were what I had been waiting for my entire life. I have always believed in a passive god, a god who waits and watches, a god who knows but does not interfere, and I have strived to live my life in accordance. _You_, Jonathan Sims, have changed that life. Because you are worth working for. The Eye brought you to me and I am forever grateful to have the chance to walk beside you as you grow and learn. To guide you on your path to becoming. You are the first thing I want to see when I wake up in the morning, and the last I want to see before I go to bed. I have watched over many things before in my life, Jon, but it is my privilege, and my honor, to be able to love you as well.”

Beneath his fingers, Jon can feel the steady beating of Elias’ heart. His smell is so familiar, his touch almost routine, but Elias’ eyes on his never fails to take Jon’s breath away.

“Jon?” Anne’s voice has an edge of humor, and Jon looks over suddenly, guiltily, not sure how many times Anne had called his name before he noticed. “Repeat your vows after me.”

And Jon does, stumbling a few times in his daze, repeating long flowery phrases full of love and devotion, about walking a shared path, and dutiful obedience. Elias never looks away once. The joy in his eyes makes Jon's own grow and settle more fully into his chest.

“Do either of the witnesses have any reason this couple should not be wed in the endless eyes of the Ceaseless Watcher?”

Jon turns, suddenly aware for the first time of the fact that the proceeding he’s been so drawn into has an audience. Nathaniel Lukas sits sternly, hands folded tight in his lap, on a pew a few rows back. Across the aisle, Simon grins loosely, arms spread wide along the backrest. The set of Nathaniel’s mouth and the narrow twitch of his eyes makes Jon think for a moment that he might object, and his stomach does funny things at the prospect of that, but the moment passes in silence and Anne continues the ceremony.

“As there are no objections, you may proceed.”

Elias pulls their joined hands away from his chest, flattening Jon’s until he can slip the golden ring off of his finger. Jon feels momentarily, inexplicably _bereft_, and he watches the ring intently as Elias transfers it to the third finger of his left hand. Before he slides it on, Jon catches the glint of a small eye engraved on the inside of the band.

“With this ring,” Elias says, drawing Jon’s attention back again, “I thee wed. May it forever stand as a promise between us, to love and to care for, as long as we both may live.” 

Anne produces a small, white matchbook from the pocket of the gray robe hanging over her shoulders and strikes a match. Jon watches the tiny, warm flame, bright in the dim light of the chapel, as she uses it to light the candle and then waves it out. Elias turns Jon’s hand over in his and presses a strip of fabric into it. It’s the dark green velvet that was his blindfold. Elias holds in his own hand the other end of the strip. 

“Now the couple will burn their ceremonial scarves, to prove that they will never be blinded again.” 

In perfect synchronicity, Jon and Elias raise their ends of the blindfold above the candle, letting the center dangle down into the flame. The velvet catches quickly and the flames eat their way up towards Jon and Elias’ hands until Jon has to drop the curling fabric from the heat. It burns itself out, leaving behind a pile of sticky, gray residue. The gemstone eyes all along the candlestick catch the flickering light, and for a moment they seem alive. Like they’re watching him. Elias leans forward and blows out the candle with one breath. 

Anne picks up the candlestick and moves it to the side of the altar, replacing it with a thick sheaf of white paper covered in dense black text. She holds a fountain pen out to Elias and he signs his name at the bottom with a flourish. 

“The marriage license,” Elias explains, handing the pen over to Jon. He leans over the table and scrawls something random, trying not to blush at Elias watching him attempt to write. He’s never really done it before. But whatever he puts there seems to please Elias because his smile only grows brighter and brighter. Anne reaches over the altar to put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, twisting him to face the audience. 

“Then in the eyes of our witnesses, and anything that may be watching, I now pronounce you officially wed. You may kiss your husband.” 

Jon hears a noise that he thinks is Simon cheering, but he can’t quite focus because Elias is tugging him close and kissing him. He has never kissed Elias in front of anyone before, and he can feel the watchful gazes of the witnesses, too many eyes, everywhere, watching Elias pull him in tighter, seeing Jon sink hungrily into it. Jon closes his eyes to the world and it is dark, but it is nothing like the blindfold. Because Elias is there, and the warmth of his lips is enough sensation to overwhelm anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have traveled far, from lands to the east, to see with eyes unclouded by hate." -Prince Ashitaka, _Princess Mononoke_
> 
> Does that quote have anything to do with this chapter? Ehhhhh. Did I see the chance to make the title a quote from my favorite movie ever and couldn't stop myself? Definitely yes.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, we hit a new record of comments on the last chapter and it was so so so amazing!! Jess and I totally freaked out. We love all of you so much. See you next Tuesday!


	12. Flesh and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three presents for Jonathan Bouchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for content warning.

After the ceremony, Elias sweeps Jon away into a long, dark car. He assures him that the decorations will be cleared away later, that  _ he has people for that. _ Jon merely shrugs, face still flushed and pleased from the ceremony. 

They meet their guests at an upscale restaurant, apparently rented out solely for their party alone. At first, Jon wonders why, but then he sees the way their servers react to the two Lukases, feels the way the power of all the people assembled weighs on the room, and  _ understands. _

Supper is served, elegantly plated seafood and wine as red as blood. The shrimp and mussels and scallops are all too overcooked for Jon, but the rest of the guests seem to enjoy it greatly. It's still delicious, he does have to admit, and he chews on the certainty that Elias picked the dishes specifically to please him. The warmth of that realization carries him through the low pang of melancholy at the salty taste of the sea.

After supper, but before the elegantly decorated almond cake is served, Elias rises to give a speech. Jon is hardly paying attention, distracted by the way Elias has his hand linked with Jon's, resting on the selkie's shoulder, and by how Simon is grinning at him again, a leer Jon can't entirely shake the weight of. They’re not the same eyes as before, but they rest heavily all the same.

Elias’ hand squeezes Jon’s lightly and he looks up, breaking Simon’s eye contact and catching the last moments of the speech. 

"—continued commitments I have already bound myself to, and the new commitments I look forward to maintaining. Jonathan, you are a choice I am honored to make again and again.”

Jon smiles, nervous, and barely catches the little frown Nathaniel Lukas has on his face. Simon and Anne both applaud, with differing levels of enthusiasm. Elias pulls his hand up to kiss Jon's knuckles, and Jon’s heart flutters again and his cheeks go red. 

_ There is nothing more pathetic in this world than a foolish, blushing selkie bride.  _ His grandmother’s voice rings harsh in his ears, and it prickles at the joy that had started to wind into his heart. Elias sits down beside him and kisses his cheek, and the memory fizzles away into nothing.

"What did you think, Jon?"

Jon leans his head on Elias’ shoulder and hums lightly. "I liked the part about choices." He turns Elias’ promise to return his skin over and over in his heart, worries at the corners of it until they crinkle. Elias is committed to him, and all he wants is commitment in return. That last part of Jon’s heart he can’t starve out of him. Jon picks up their still joined hands and kisses the tips of Elias’ fingers.

"Oh, Jonathan. We're going to be so good together."

Elias says his name with a happy sigh, like the sun setting over the sparkling waves. Jon holds onto that, the memory of the light in Elias' eyes so sweet and bright it could blind him.

***

By the time they get home that evening, Jon is breathless and laughing as Elias carries him over the threshold of the house in his arms. Elias still looks perfectly put together, his tie the only thing askew. Next to him, Jon is a mess, flushed from kisses and wine, his tie loose around his neck, suit and flowers a little rumpled from when he let Elias pin him against a wall or two to pepper his face and jawline with chaste kisses.

Elias sets him down in the front hall and grabs him by the hand, kissing him again. It's like a dam has broken completely, and all the affection Elias has is spilling out. Jon feels it washing over him, eroding him away, but just now he can't make himself care. 

Elias leads him by the hand to the library, and sits him down on the loveseat. His smile is bright and mischievous, and Jon is taken by how young Elias suddenly looks.

"Stay here, Jon, I've got a surprise for you." Elias plants a soft kiss on Jon's forehead and leaves, the warmth lingering even as the door closes. 

Jon stares after him for a moment, and then digs out the snowglobe Simon Fairchild gave him. He shakes it, and the way the glitter twists and falls hypnotizes him for a moment. His heart seizes with a sudden, possessive thrill and he gets up to find a place on one of the bookshelves where it can be tucked it away, hidden between a book on parapsychology and another on making a good impression. He runs a finger over it once, gently, and then returns to the sofa and settles into the soft cushions. 

Elias returns only a few moments later, holding a plate. Jon’s mouth waters at the familiar smell that swirls tantalizingly from it. Elias sits down beside Jon and holds the plate out delicately, like an offering. 

"This is for you, Jon. Please enjoy it."

Jon knows what it is immediately. The large piece of pale pink meat is sliced neatly, nothing like the still bleeding chunks he remembers tearing out of drowned corpses, but the scent is unmistakable. It's been too long since he's had any, he knows, and he's suddenly ravenous for it, the aching flesh of his human form struggling to maintain itself without proper sustenance. 

"How did you even  _ get  _ that? I thought—" His words are cut off when Elias presses the plate into his hands and a kiss to his head. 

"I have my ways, Jon, now  _ eat." _

It is _ wonderful. _

Sweet and tender and familiar, better than any of the fancy seafood plates or delicacies Elias had served at their wedding. He devours it like an animal with the quick, desperate bites of a starving predator. If he focuses, he can feel his body adjusting itself, the ingested flesh balancing out the  _ inhuman, _ the selkie blood creeping to the surface, and evening out his complexion. It's the smooth transition of the well-worn disguise of a monster born to hunt and breed with humans in order to survive. 

He opens his eyes, not entirely sure when he had closed them, and runs his tongue along the newly blunted edges of his teeth. The hunger he always feels has abated, at least for now, and Jon can focus on his husband without the undercurrent of  _ feed _ and  _ blood. _

Elias is watching him with fascination, with pride, like he desires the monster as much as the man. He has his palm on Jon's wrist and is brushing the back of his hand with his thumb. 

"Jon, you are a  _ marvel. _ The way you blend, no one would ever know what you are. You’re absolutely beautiful."

The selkie can do nothing but blush at the words, at the praise heaped upon the nature he’d always assumed all humans would fear. Elias positively glows as he rises to his feet and holds a hand out to Jon. 

"It's a human tradition for newly married couples to have a first dance. I thought you might like to have it here, where it's comfortable, and private.” Jon takes his hand and allows himself to be swept up in Elias’ arms. Elias leans forward and nuzzles into the top of Jon’s head. “I prefer it when it’s just you and I."

"I-I've never danced before,” Jon says, nervously. “Not how you humans do. There's what we do in the water but—"

"I'm sure you'll be as elegant on the land as you no doubt are in the sea," Elias murmurs fondly into Jon’s hair. He pulls away, and leads Jon over to the center of the room, pausing briefly to settle a record on the gramophone. He’d shown Jon how to use it several days before, and he was enthralled by the sounds it could produce. Jon watches the way Elias sets it to running with his elegant hands. 

Before Jon knows it, Elias has swept him into a soft waltz, eyes never leaving Jon's. Initially, Jon is clumsy, but Elias is a good lead and he finds his feet soon enough. The song passes in what feels like no time, and Jon is breathless, swept under by the romance and devotion that shines in every movement and lingering glance.

By the time the song has shifted into another, more melancholy piece, Jon's heart is beating fast, and he's leaning into Elias like he's a rock in the midst of a storm. The kiss he pulls Elias down for is a simple peck, chaste and soft, and he smiles at the blush that blooms across Elias' cheeks.

"Thank you, Jon," Elias says, with such genuine awe and gratitude in his voice that Jon’s heart dips.

Elias takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and wraps an arm around Jon’s waist. Jon curls into his chest and lets the gentle rocking of their dance soothe him like ocean waves. By the time they settle back onto the loveseat, still entangled, Jon is drifting lazily on the edge of sleep. His eyes start slipping shut as Elias gently unwinds the flowers and vines from his hair and sets them aside, the touches so light over his scalp and through his curls that he can barely feel them. 

"Perhaps we can retire to bed, Jon. It's been a long day, after all."

"Yes, it has," Jon admits, sleepy but pleased.

***

Jon stares into the bathroom mirror, studying the stormy gray of his now fully human eyes, irises properly circled in white, not black in their entirety like a seal's. He’s seen them like this before, but it's almost startling just how different they look in the stark clarity of a glass mirror instead of a still pool of water. It even  _ feels _ different. 

He catches a glint of light behind him in the mirror, something shining oddly at the bottom of the empty bathtub. His curiosity pulls him away from the mirror and over to pick up a wrapped silver package. It's tied with a beautiful blue ribbon that Jon briefly runs over his face, enjoying the soft velvety feeling, and then sets aside to keep for later. He opens the paper with careful fingers, trying not to rip the lovely silver paper.

Inside is a book, bound in soft blue leather, with simple golden line art behind the title depicting waves crashing against a tall cliff. His heart stops for a moment in his chest, and it almost hurts to breathe. 

_ Folktales of the Sea. _

Jon ignores the void swelling in his throat and slowly thumbs it open. On the inside of the cover, in Elias' elegant writing, it says,  _ For my Jonathan. _ _ From the instant we met, I knew I wanted you. _

His breath catches, and it is too loud in the silent room. Jon’s knees give out and he crumples slowly to the cold tile of the bathroom. The book slips from his hands and falls open on the floor naturally to a page that has been bookmarked by a thin, silver necklace. Jon reaches out and tangles his fingers in the delicate chain, holding the necklace up so he can see the charm of it. A flat glass circle full of pressed flowers, little white bells and light blue petals, trapped in that moment between life and death. Preserved forever. The light catches in the glass as it twists gently in the air.

It’s  _ beautiful. _

He looks down at the page of the book still lying open on the floor and reads through the buzzing at the back of his eyes. 

_ Selkies are inherently romantic creatures. With or without their skin, they will always devote themselves wholly to their one true love. Their love is like the sea, endless, deep, and all-encompassing. It is the greatest gift to be truly loved by such a creature. _

“I think you should sleep in the bed tonight, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t turn around to watch Elias approach. He sits and stares at the book until Elias leans down and picks it up, and then takes the necklace from Jon’s unresisting grasp. He pulls Jon to his feet gently, moving him like a doll. He stops him for a moment in front of the mirror and brushes his long hair aside with a movement that is so gentle it is almost a caress. He drapes the necklace over Jon’s chest, and lets his touch linger just a bit longer than necessary as he secures it.

_ This is what I am, _ Jon thinks as he stands still and silent and lets Elias collar him.  _ This is what I’ve always been. _

He searches for the fire he had before, but finds nothing. Just waterlogged despair filling the empty spaces of his lungs.

It was  _ Jon _ who had accepted all of Elias' gifts, craved them, let himself be led around like a pet as he followed the whims of the man who owned him. Even now he hates the bone-deep surety that it’s  _ better _ than when he was fighting it. He has something, now, even if he isn’t quite sure what it is or if he wants it. The sea seems like a distant thing, a near impossible dream held in the lying hands of the man who’s hidden his skin. 

"It suits you, darling," Elias says, words full of love, and eyes  _ too much _ for Jon to meet right now. The kiss he places over Jon's wedding band is light as he leads the selkie out of the room, and to the bed. 

Jon's blanket nest on the floor has already been cleared away, and his pillow has been added to the side Elias sits him on. He wonders briefly, pointlessly, if he even could have tried to say no. But Jon doesn't have it in him to argue right now, not really. Elias kneels in front of him and covers both the selkie's hands with his own.

“I promise I will not touch you,” Elias says, and Jon wants to say  _ you do nothing but touch me, _ but the only thing worse than the possessive slide of Elias’ hands against his skin would be losing it forever.

“The bed is wide,” Elias says, “you won’t even notice I’m there. But I can’t stand you sleeping on the floor on our wedding night. You deserve to sleep somewhere comfortable.”

"Thank you Elias," Jon says, and his voice rings hollow in his own ears. Elias seems pleased though, and kisses his forehead in the exact same place he kisses it every night. 

"Sleep well, Jon," he says, as Jon curls under the covers. Elias was right, the bed is so wide, a too soft, endless expanse that Jon could lose himself in. Elias clicks off his bedside lamp, leaving Jon in the dark with only dreams of his forsaken home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And commenting! You are all wonderful. 💜 This chapter was great fun to write, I won't lie. I love just how much Elias loves his monster husband, don't you?
> 
> (I couldn't mention it expressly, but the flowers in the necklace are lily-of-the-valley, and petals of a blue anemone flower.)
> 
> CW for cannibalism, a little more than just talking about it.


	13. Guidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias gives Jon a few too many tips on how to be human.

The delicious smell of cooking eggs draws Jon down to the kitchen. He walks up behind Elias who is busy at the stove, and sniffs at each of the ingredients laid out along the counter. Cooking is a fascinating process, all the different flavors combining to make something even more delicious than the raw fish he’s enjoyed for most of his life. Elias looks over and gives him a warm smile before turning back to the pan he’s poking at with a spatula.

“I think I would like to learn to cook,” Jon announces, popping himself up to sit on the kitchen island. 

“That’s a lovely idea,” Elias says. He reaches up and opens a cabinet to retrieve two plates and bring them over to the island. He shoos Jon off it with a quick reprimand and begins laying out the place setting. “It’ll be a good thing for you to engage with more human activities, and it’ll give you a means to take care of yourself while I’m away. You know, I don’t want to have to keep you in the house forever, but I can’t let you out the way you are.”

“The way I am?” Jon echoes.

“No one would ever take you for a human.” Elias grabs the frying pan off the stovetop and serves a portion of eggs to each of the two plates. “And not everyone is as accepting of monsters as I am.”

“I look _plenty_ human.”

“You _look_ human, but you don’t _act_ human.” Elias pulls Jon’s chair out and he sits down and lets his husband push him in. He reaches out and grabs at the eggs on his plate, but they’re too hot to hold so he drops them back again. “Exactly my point, Jon. Wait until I get you a fork.”

Jon frowns down at his eggs. When Elias turns his back, he leans down and bites a tiny piece off with the tips of his teeth, breathing heavily to try and cool it down. He only burns his tongue a little, flicking it into his mouth and swallowing it down.

“Jon!” Elias smacks him lightly on the back of the head. “That’s _not_ how we eat.”

Jon sullenly accepts the fork Elias holds out to him, stabbing at the eggs unsuccessfully.

“I should have plenty of time to teach you over our honeymoon.” Jon cocks his head in confusion, and Elias explains. “I’m going to be staying home from work this week so that I can spend more time with you.”

“Does it involve honey?” Jon asks, twisting to look up at Elias. “Or the moon?”

“It can. Would you like me to fetch some honey for your tea?”

Jon nods and Elias brings out a small glass jar full of golden honey. It smells delicious and Jon can’t hold himself back from dipping two fingers in and scooping out a mouthful for himself. It drizzles down onto his chin, sticky and sweet.

“Jon, please.” Elias sounds exasperated as he grabs a napkin and wipes at Jon’s face. “You’re going to get it all in your lovely hair.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should care, if you want to become human enough to leave the house.”

“I’m doing my best,” Jon pouts, but he can’t deny the attractiveness of the proposition of another degree of freedom. He misses the fresh air, and the bright sunlight on his skin. He misses _outside._ Elias’ expression softens and he kisses the side of Jon’s head, smoothing his hand over where he smacked him before.

“I know you are, dear. But I think you could do with some guidelines.”

**1\. We eat food with utensils.**

“Are you writing something, Jon?” Jon instinctively slides a hand to cover the still-drying ink in embarrassment as he whips his head up to look at Elias. His husband returns his panicked look with a bland, encouraging smile, and Jon guiltily shifts his hand away, scratching at the side of his nose.

“I’m copying passages,” he explains. “To practice.”

“To practice writing?” Elias pulls the other desk chair up and sits down beside Jon. Their knees press slightly together and Elias doesn’t seem to notice, so Jon pretends he doesn’t either.

“Well, I have to find _something_ to pass the time,” Jon snaps back.

“No no, I encourage it. It’s always good to educate oneself.” Elias slides a hand up Jon’s back and scratches lightly between his shoulder blades, ignoring the way Jon shifts uncomfortably. “Besides, you’ll be bored soon enough when I’m not around in a few days.”

Jon looks over at Elias, waiting for him to get up again and leave him to his work, but from the smug look on his face, he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to leave. Jon heaves a sigh and pulls his pen back up to continue. Elias’ gaze feels heavy, and Jon’s hand shakes with nerves, leaving streaky black ink across the page.

“This is very well done, Jon,” Elias says, and Jon ignores the heat that fills the tips of his ears. “But a true gentleman writes in cursive.”

“The books are in block print.”

“Then you’re very lucky I’m here, hm?” Elias reaches over and wraps his hand around Jon’s holding the pen, guiding it along the page in long, looping letters. Jon stares at their hands layered over each other, lets his arm go slack so that Elias can easily drag him along. Even writing with Jon’s hand, Elias’ penmanship is impeccable.

“There,” Elias says, drawing his hand back and kissing the shell of Jon’s ear. “I’ve written you the alphabet. Now you can practice from that." 

**2\. Say thank you, Jon.**

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles.

“How about you try signing your name?”

Jon ignores the arm that snakes around his waist, and he ignores the way he leans back into Elias’ shoulder. He traces the curves of the unfamiliar letters with his eyes, trying to commit them to memory before leaning forward. The swoop of the _J_ bleeding into the _o_ feels unsteady and uncontrollable. The ink rubs off on the side of his hand and smudges his already shaky lines. His mind is split in anxious nerves between Elias’ thoughtful hum as he watches Jon struggle, and Elias’ thumb rubbing slow circles on his hip.

“You’re a very quick study, Jon,” Elias says, and the warm pride curling through his voice feels almost more intimate than his breath on Jon’s neck. “But I have one correction.”

Elias plucks the pen from Jon’s hand and runs a smooth line through _Sims_.

**3\. Your name is Jonathan Bouchard.**

“There,” Elias says, smiling and smug. “_Perfect._”

**4\. Don’t chew on the sheets, Jonathan.**

Jon scowls and lets the blanket fall from his mouth. He shoots another glare at Elias, but he hasn’t even looked up from his book. It’s been days and Jon is going _crazy_. His own book, a surprisingly engaging treatise on shipping customs, lies forgotten in his lap. They can’t go on like this.

“I can feel you staring,” Elias says. “If you want something

**5\. Use your words, Jon.**

“Are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Elias has the tone of voice Jon has come to recognize as _I know what you want from me but I won’t acknowledge it until you say it._ It’s his most infuriating tone of voice. Either that or his _I’m doing this for your own good, Jon_ voice. He’s spent the better part of a week now with Elias around every hour of every day. He’s gotten quite a vocabulary of Elias’ favorite tones.

“The bed. I’m sleeping in it.”

“So you are.” Elias licks the tip of his finger and turns the page of his book. The smooth rustle of paper is as neat as the creases in Elias’ pajamas. Everything pressed and perfect and practiced. 

Jon refuses to back down. “I don’t _want_ to be.”

Elias sighs, long and drawn out. It twitches at something old and angry in Jon’s chest. He doesn’t _deserve_ to sigh like that. “We’ve been over this, Jon."

**6\. Married couples sleep in the same bed.**

“I don’t love you.” The words come out before Jon can stop to consider, but he doesn’t regret them. 

Elias takes a long moment to blink before closing his book and placing it neatly on his bedside table. So perfect. So _practiced_. It prickles at Jon's already twisted nerves. He turns to Jon and the intensity of his eyes almost makes the selkie take it all back in a panicked flurry, but instead he bites his lip and returns the stare. Elias reaches out and tucks a loose strand of Jon’s hair back behind his ear, and Jon nearly flinches at the contact, tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Love is not a _necessary_ component to a marriage,” Elias begins, his voice low and measured. He leans in, closer. “But that’s not the case here, is it, Jon?”

Jon tries to lean back but there’s nowhere to go, and he’s caught by Elias’ endless gaze, like a fish on land, gasping for air. “I….I _don’t_…”

“But you _do_.” Elias lets his hand slide farther until it is cupping the back of Jon’s head, and draws him in close until their foreheads just barely touch. Elias breathes in deeply and Jon can’t help but follow suit, filling his lungs with the soft, familiar scent of his husband at the end of a long day. “You can’t lie to me.”

“Another rule?” Jon asks, but the vitriol he meant to pour into his voice doesn’t manifest, and he’s left sounding husky and desperate. Elias smiles.

“No. Lying is the most human thing you can do, Jon. But you cannot lie to _me_. I see right through you. Every time you shiver at my touch,” Elias glides a hand down Jon’s goosebumped forearm, “every time you stare at me when you think I can’t see.” 

Jon closes his eyes, but it does nothing. “I don’t want this. I don’t want _any_ of this.”

“Denial is also a hallmark of humanity.” Elias pulls his head back, letting Jon’s slump forward naturally. He lifts a hand to wipe at Jon’s tearless eyes and presses a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. “You’re coming along beautifully.”

_I don’t want any of this_, Jon repeats again, to himself. To remember.

**7\. Say goodnight, Jon.**

Elias’ master bathroom has a clawfoot bathtub, and Jon likes to fill it all the way to the brim with ice cold water, until the surface becomes a mirror sheet. He sits next to it on the cold tile floor, and places just the flat of his outstretched hand against it. The water trembles beneath his gentle touch, spilling out and over, tiny beads running down the sides of the tub to the floor. It is cold and familiar and never enough, and it fills Jon’s throat with a desperate longing that he can’t tell if he enjoys or hates.

“Traditionally, humans take off their clothes before bathing.” Jon’s teeth clench at the sound of Elias’ voice. He doesn’t have to turn to know he is lounging, arms crossed, smiling smugly in the doorway. This week of his constant presence has grown beyond insufferable. Jon feels like he is drowning in _attention_ and _rules_ and _surveillance_. There is nowhere Jon can escape him. 

**8\. No locked doors allowed.**

For once, he’d like to see _Elias_ drown. 

“I wasn’t planning to bathe.”

“Swim, then? I’m afraid I’ll need a slightly larger tub.”

Jon pulls his hand from the surface of the water and turns around to glare at his husband. He flashes his dulled teeth, hating how clipped and helpless this form makes him feel. “I do not swim in _tubs_.”

Elias smiles softly, as if he knows _exactly_ who Jon is deep down to the core of him. Jon hopes he does, hopes he can see right now how much Jon wants to grab him by the collar and hold him thrashing under the water until the life bubbles from his mouth and the blood vessels burst in his eyes. Elias would look beautiful as a corpse.

“Do you miss your home, pet?” Elias asks.

Jon scowls. “I refuse to answer your questions. They’re traps.”

“Oh come now, you love questions.” Elias strides smoothly into the room and kneels down beside Jon. He reaches forward to brush Jon’s hair back behind his ear and the motion is at once familiar and repulsive.

“I don’t love _your_ questions which never come to answers and only circle around to _more_ questions.” Jon drops his chin to his chest, curling up small. “Or more restrictions.”

“Oh, my sweet Jonathan,” Elias sighs, reaching out and grasping Jon’s hand in his own. He squeezes the wedding band until it digs deep into Jon’s skin. When Jon opens his mouth to protest, Elias swoops in and kisses him, pressing himself into Jonathan’s open mouth. Elias pulls their linked hands and plunges them into the bathtub in a rush of movement. The feeling of the freezing water and Elias’ heat on his mouth mix into a spiralling sensation of agony and longing all in one. It is very like Elias, something Jon cannot help but hate and desire.

Jon closes his eyes to the kiss, to the pain, and wonders what Elias’ lips would feel like, cold, wet, and _blue._

**9\. Baths must be taken hot.**

“Your hair is beautiful, Jon,” Elias says, again. He has said it before, dozens of times, all while running his hands through the smooth, dark curls. Jon wonders if he actually _likes_ his hair, or simply loves the way touching it makes Jon shiver beneath him. It’s a daily ritual during their _honeymoon_ for Elias to force Jon to sit at his feet as he slowly and carefully brushes out Jon’s hair. The entire process is excruciatingly relaxing.

**10\. Only I can brush your hair, Jon.**

“Your hair is beautiful, Jon.” Elias lets his fingers trail through the strands as he tucks and folds and braids it carefully back. Jon rests his chin absentmindedly on Elias’ knee and shuts his eyes and tries not to think about anything. It _almost_ works. 

**11\. Only I can braid your hair, Jon.**

“Your hair is beautiful, Jon.” Elias scratches pleasantly at Jon’s scalp as he lathers the shampoo into it. Jon’s skin is red and raw from sitting in the uncomfortably hot bath. Elias’ hands smell like melon and cucumber for the rest of the evening, and the scent surrounds him on his pillow as Jon falls asleep. 

**12\. Only I can wash your hair, Jon.**

_Your hair is beautiful, Jon._ Jon stares into his own eyes in the mirror. He’s always loved his hair, the silvered, looping ringlets. It reminds him of his grandmother, her own gray curls always long and drifting through the water. He imagines it would remind him of his mother, if he knew her. Jon slides a hand back through his long, soft hair, and pictures Elias’ touch. The honeymoon is over. Elias is finally back at work, and Jon is blissfully _alone._

There are some rules that don’t need to be said. 

Jon slips the scissors from his pocket, stares once more at the face he barely recognizes, and cuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! Happy Tuesday! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, we have both been having such crazy busy weeks we barely had time to get this written and edited! It was a bit more of an experimental style, but it's nice to have some breaks in the narrative in my opinion :)
> 
> Fun fact! This chapter contains a short story which was the first thing ever written for this au. Jess told me about the idea for it, and I got inspired and wrote the short piece and then we both decided to make it into the longfic you see before you today! So it's a bit of a historic chapter :D I hope you all enjoy!!


	14. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns what it truly means to be a prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: referenced: chaining, caging, branding, pregnancy with abusive partner forced to carry to term  
(the following tags are not part of the main story but are referenced)

“Ah, Jon. What’s that you’re reading?”

Jon doesn’t look up from the book in his lap. “It’s about the industrial revolution.”

“An enlightened time. Excellent choice of reading material.” Elias takes a few steps into the room and then stops, glaring down at him. Jon ignores the burning weight of Elias’ eyes. He can feel the disapproval radiating off his husband in waves and he lets it settle warm in his bones. It's about time the idyllic nightmare finally shattered. Jon flips a page and the crinkle of paper cuts through the silence like a knife.

“Do you have something you want to talk to me about, Jonathan?” Elias asks, his voice full of forced patience. The last dregs of the mask he’s worn since they met.

“Pretty sure  _ you’re _ the one who started talking to me.” Another page. Jon’s eyes scan over the words, entirely disinterested in Elias.

“You didn’t truly think I wouldn’t notice. I’ve never known you to be stupid.”

“I expected you would notice.” Flip. “I just fail to care about your opinion.”

Elias smiles, but his eyes are aflame. He steps forward and runs a hand through Jon’s hair. It still catches at something soft and vulnerable in Jon’s chest, but it also feels like  _ freedom. _ It feels like rebellion. 

“I thought I made it  _ clear. _ I like it long.”

“Well.” Jon screws up his nose. “Having it long made me feel sick and since I figured you wouldn’t want me making a mess of your freshly laundered sheets, I took the liberty of availing myself of your scissors.”

Jon can’t help the toothy grin that spreads over his face as Elias grabs at the short ends of his freshly shorn hair and tugs just enough to force Jon’s gaze up to meet his. “What, do you not still think I’m pretty?”

Elias is not smiling anymore. His grip tightens to an almost painful degree, and Jon relishes it. Elias’ voice is tight, barely restrained. “I’m gathering that you’re upset.”

Jon could strangle him for the civility of his words. “Oh are you, Elias? Are you  _ really?” _

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you were mature enough to come to me with your problems instead of lashing out like a mindless animal.”

“Then maybe don’t  _ treat me like one," _ Jon snaps, smacking Elias’ hand away from his head. He snarls deep in his throat and it feels  _ good _ , his aggression settling over his shoulders like an old coat.

“I have been nothing but respectful to you, Jonathan.” Elias takes a step back and straightens his spine, looking down at Jon from his full, not very imposing height. The righteous indignation fits right into the clean sharp lines of his face, so proud, so used to getting everything that he wants. “I have tried to help you be more human. I have treated you as a partner. I have listened to your boundaries and not touched you  _ once _ despite our marriage—”

“You have kept me  _ imprisoned _ here!” Jon springs to his feet. He hears the crumple of paper as his hand tightens into a fist around the forgotten book. “You have ignored my complaints. You have imposed upon me restriction after restriction after restriction and my skin  _ burns _ with all the hands you have  _ forced _ upon me.”

“Oh have you suffered,  _ pet, _ really? Languished in your silk sheets and fancy meats and the presents I’ve bought you? Has it been  _ hard  _ spending every day reading to your heart’s content?”

_ “Don’t call me pet.” _

Elias narrows his eyes just a touch. There is a coiled tension in his body that Jon recognizes. It is familiar, predator and prey. “You have food, and clothing, and comfort. Compared to most selkies, most humans, even, you are cared for and respected. You should be more grateful.” 

“If you didn’t have me bound by compulsion,” Jon hisses, “I would have torn your throat out  _ weeks _ ago.”

The room falls silent as Elias regards Jon, clicking his tongue absentmindedly. He reaches out, resting his fingers on the side of Jon’s neck and pressing his thumb into the quivering bulge of Jon’s adam’s apple. He swallows nervously, his throat jumping beneath Elias’ touch, but he stands defiant, still,  _ daring _ Elias to hurt him. At least then it would be out in the open where they stand with each other.

“May I tell you a story, Jon?” Elias’ thumb strokes up and down Jon’s straining throat until he shudders. “You like stories, don’t you?”

Jon stares greedily into Elias’ eyes and waits for the trap to shut.

“Your mother, lovely woman. Never got to know her though, did you? Tragic, really, for a child to be separated from his parents so young. What was it that you told yourself, Jon? That it was for the best? That perhaps she gave you up to stay with your father? That your grandmother’s bitterness was over the loss of her child and being saddled with you, but that your mother had found love? Had found happiness on the surface?”

Jon’s mouth tightens into a thin line. Elias slides his fingers around until he is toying with the short hairs at the nape of Jon’s neck. “But you knew none of that was true, didn’t you Jon.”

Jon drops his head, staying stubbornly silent.

“She had no choice. No _ love. _ And none of the luxuries you’re so quick to spit on. You think I am keeping you prisoner, Jonathan? Would you like to know how your father punished  _ her  _ when  _ she  _ disobeyed? It’s very creative.”

Jon thinks of the golden band tight around his finger, the man he has no wish to stay with, and the lightness of his hair. He thinks of the skin he wants back, that he traded his freedom for. He thinks of the old stories, and his grandmother's tales. The selkie bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood and spits it at Elias. 

"You'll tell me anyway. There's no point in drawing out the torment." Jon’s voice is harsh and low, filled with every kind of violence he has buried in his fantasies.

“Oh, Jonathan.” Elias wipes the flecks of blood from his cheek with the back of his thumb and chuckles. “You don’t know what true torment is.”

And then, Jon _does._ A sharp pain lances through his head as it is filled, _too much,_ _too _**_full_** of the knowledge of the types of pain a man could inflict. The pain his mother suffered under time and time again. He lives each one as if it was his own flesh. Jon had never even known his mother’s face, but now he sees it contorted, burned into his eyelids and there is no doubt in his heart that it is her. It is genuine. 

_ He has her eyes. _

Jon sees her  _ chained, _ feels the burning weight of iron heavy around his own wrists and ankles and wrapping her limbs tight until they scream. Her bare flesh is mottled and broken by bruises and cuts scarring all down her arms and torso. He burns at the brands being pressed into her skin, iron and flame combining into a pain Jon can barely comprehend. She is  _ cold _ and  _ starved _ and left  _ alone _ for days in the dark, caged and gagged, with tears and blood drying on her skin. And beneath it all, the fear of what is growing inside her. Her child.  _ His _ child. And she cannot protect it. She cannot even protect herself.

Jon doesn’t realize he is crying until he feels Elias’ cool fingers brushing away the tears. He is shushing him, making calming, cooing noises. Jon’s throat burns, has he been screaming? The book is on the floor, pages crumpling beneath its weight.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” Elias is whispering. Jon clings to his voice in spite of himself, needing something grounding. “I would never hurt you, pet. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t  _ want _ to do those awful things.”

Elias cups Jon’s face in his hands and makes him meet his eyes. He lifts a thumb and swipes away a stray tear still sliding down Jon’s cheek. “You won’t make me hurt you, will you, Jonathan?”

“Now my father.” Jon snarls through his ragged panting.  _ "Show me where he is." _

Elias’ eyes light up, burning into Jon with pride this time, not anger. He presses forward until Jon is leaning back against a bookshelf and kisses him fiercely. When Jon closes his eyes, all he can see is his mother screaming in pain, and he scrabbles against Elias’ chest, desperate to escape. He can’t breathe, he can’t  _ breathe. _

Elias pulls back, smiling and smug. “I imagine you need some time to process. Take however long you need, love. I’ll go get dinner started.”

As soon as Elias steps away, Jon’s legs give out from beneath him and he crumples to the ground. He’s shaking too violently to attempt to right himself, so he slowly curls his arms around his knees in a vague attempt at holding himself together. It isn't helping, it's making it  _ worse. _ Every time he blinks he’s back in that cage. He still feels the iron chains wrapping around his throat like a vise. He wants to believe that this is a lie, some trick of Elias’, but he feels the truth of the vision deep in his bones. Something curls in his stomach and he thinks he might be sick.

“Jon?” Jon barely manages to look up at Elias where he stands, far too pulled together, poised in the door to the library. His smile is the same gentle smile Jon fell for that first day in his office. “Don’t worry. I’m not like him. You're safe here.

The click of the door closing behind him sounds like a cage slamming shut.

Jon spends the rest of the evening curled over the toilet, vomiting up the dinner he could barely stomach and crying intermittently. Elias tries at first to sit beside him and stroke his hair calmingly, but each time Elias touches him Jon feels the sting of iron chains and his chest contracts in panic and he flings himself away so violently that even Elias seems concerned. Eventually he leaves him alone, bringing him a glass of water and a wet towel before retiring to bed. Jon doesn’t sleep at all, fearing the darkness behind his eyes.

When Elias is away at work it’s easier. Jon alternates between burying himself in the comfort of soft pillows and flinging them away from him when he can no longer stand  _ anything _ touching his skin. He reads more fiction, a furious need to consume stories that aren’t his own burning in his chest. Remembering his grandmother's tales brings no relief either, just a bittersweet pain in his heart. He holds the round glass of the necklace Elias gave him tight in one fist and times his breathing.

When Elias is home each night, even Jon can see the worry that is building in him. The smug certainty he’d had when he left Jon that day is wasting away, replaced by uncharacteristically hesitant touches and frowns that crease wrinkles into his forehead. Jon wishes he was in a state to enjoy it.

Jon refuses to share the bed, sleeping on the floor until he wakes in a panic at the freezing touch of the cold ground and flees under the covers. He curls into a ball and rubs his wrists together desperately, trying to burn away the phantom pain. Elias says nothing, but Jon knows he is awake.

“Jon.” Elias approaches him the next evening, slowly, carefully, like he’s something wild and unpredictable. He tries to take Jon’s hand but Jon flinches away from the contact and something turns over in his stomach at the genuine bereavement in Elias’ eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

There hasn’t been much of it, recently.  _ Talking. _ Jon has been silent and skittish for days and even Elias’ usual, goading  _ use your words _ couldn’t coax much from him. The house is heavy and quiet.

“I was upset at the way you acted,” Elias continues, assuming Jon is paying attention even though he has not uncurled from the tight ball he sits in on the couch. “But I went too far. I didn’t realize how deeply it would hurt you. I didn’t  _ intend _ it to. I only wanted you to understand how much I care about you. To  _ understand _ how most humans would be treating you.”

Jon says nothing. His mother’s screams have faded like a healing bruise that only hurts when you press it. He presses it, and closes his eyes, shivering his way through the memory.

“I would never treat you that way,” Elias whispers. It’s so soft, Jon isn’t even sure if he was meant to hear it.

Elias pauses, giving Jon room to respond, but the silence merely stretches. “I’ve noticed you do better when I’m not around, recently. I...understand that you need your space. Conveniently, I have a business trip coming up that I must attend to. I’ll be gone for three days, Jon. You’ll have the run of the house, all to yourself. I hope…”

Elias trails off, and Jon can feel his eyes on him, begging for some kind of acknowledgement. He doesn’t look up. Elias sighs and finishes his thought.

“I hope when I come back, we’ll be able to talk.”

Jon hopes his silence is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crow, thank you all for your support!! O hope y'all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> After our last chapter, Catter was awesome and made some art for us!! Thank you so much!!
> 
> [Catter's wonderful art of Jon cutting his hair](https://imaginehowistouchthevast.tumblr.com/post/188526047756/oh-i-hope-some-day-ill-make-it-out-of-here)
> 
> As always, feel free to come talk to Fly or I at our tumbrs!


	15. Home Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon enjoys his solitude. At first.

The next morning, Jon sits in the kitchen, as far away from Elias as he can. He watches him prepare breakfast with cold eyes, hiding the fear that still lingers in his gut. Elias catches him staring, but as soon as he tries to meet the selkie's eyes, Jon drops his gaze. It feels like losing, like submission, but Elias' admission last night could be seen as such too, Jon supposes.

"You must take care of yourself while I’m away, Jon," Elias is saying, having returned to his cooking with a disappointed frown. "You’ll be on your own for three days, but just in case I've left you enough containers of food to last up to _five_." 

He accentuates that statement with a sweep of his arm towards the fridge and freezer. When the selkie opts to pay no attention, Elias sighs, studying Jon where he is perched on the other side of the kitchen's island. The needling tone Elias uses, and the way it feels like Elias is trying to play the _amused and worried husband,_ makes Jon shudder deep in his bones.

"Jon, one of these days, you will have to learn how to cook properly. Perhaps before my next trip we’ll continue our lessons from our honeymoon. Practice makes perfect, after all."

Jon just shakes his head, and says nothing. Elias doesn't deserve the scathing words he wants to say, the fire he’s had on his tongue this morning.

_Yes, I'm sure I will, Elias,_ he thinks, and Jon is sure Elias can hear it, or perhaps read it in the annoyed line of Jon's body.

Elias takes a deep breath, clearing away the frustration Jon can see in his face, and struggles to maintain his calm tone. "Just because you dislike me doesn’t mean that we’re not stuck together for the long haul, Jon. If you won’t believe me when I tell you that you are safe with me, I will simply have to prove it. It will be better for both of us if we can trust each other."

***

The second the door closes behind Elias, Jon nearly collapses in relief as all of his muscles untense. He breathes in the cool, silent air of the empty house and feels his threadbare nerves slowly unwinding. He finishes off his breakfast, taking the time to leisurely lick the plate in the way Elias always forbids him to do, and then rifles through the carefully portioned and prepared meals in glass bins stacked two-high in the fridge. He pulls one out and pops the lid, sniffing at the cold pasta inside. As he snaps the lid back down, he sees a yellow post it note taped rather thoroughly to the top. It says:

**Step 1: Remove lid.  
** Step 2: Open microwave door.  
Step 3: Put container into microwave.  
Step 4: Close microwave door.  
Step 5: Press reheat button on microwave.  
Step 6: When microwave beeps, open door.  
Step 7: Remove container (be careful, Jon. It’s hot.)  
Step 8: Eat food, once cooled (with a fork.) 

**I miss you already. **

Jon scowls at the entirely unnecessary _eight step_ explanation of how to microwave pasta and tosses the glass container back into the fridge with unnecessary force. Elias may miss him, but he could not be happier being on his own. He retreats upstairs and spends a blissful day reading and wandering the house, looking through every drawer, closet, desk, and hiding spot he can that Elias normally forbids him. The only thing he finds even remotely interesting is a letter from a captain, full of teasing about a bet and some incredibly corny poetry. He doesn’t understand half of what it is referring to, and all it does is make him miss the sea.

The game of finding all of Elias’ secrets has become significantly less fun by the time the day winds down towards evening and Jon has yet to uncover anything more interesting than a contract with a printer paper supplier. He pokes morosely through Elias’ sock drawer, disappointed to find nothing but socks. And not even any interesting socks, just black dress socks all folded neatly and tucked into their place. He slams the drawer shut and opens the wardrobe. 

Jon is normally not allowed to touch his husband's clothing, not allowed near his _precious_ expensive suits. Elias has never said why, but Jon thinks it's another way to keep his _wild_ husband away from his orderly, pristine world.

A sudden burst of sadness catches like a wave in his chest, threatening to break the seawall as Jon leans in to look at the different pieces and catches the scent of Elias lingering on the clothing. It relieves something deep inside him, even as his gut churns and his heart races with the remnants of awful sense memory. 

Jon flips past them, ignoring his gut. He tries to admire the suits the way he used to so easily admire human inventions. He tries to think of them as something separate from Elias, each elegant and perfectly tailored and soft. It's calming, in a strange way, until he flips over to a particular suit. _That suit_. The one Elias wore to their wedding. The suit cruelly colored _exactly like his coat._

Something in Jon _snaps_, weeks of building anger and sadness and pure pain finally spilling out of him as he rips the suit out of the wardrobe. He tears it into pieces, pulling it apart into tiny strips with the nails that have been slowly growing back, and with the teeth that are still too dull. It’s satisfying to hear the shredding fabric, but it takes _too long_ and that only stokes the fire of his rage.

He goes back for more suits, riding the wave, and destroying the ones he knows he's seen Elias wear, the ones with the freshest scents. He screams, just to hear his own voice ripping at the inside of his throat. He coats the ground in shredded fabric, scraps of suit covering the ground where he used to sleep and spilling out into the hallway. He brings them with him like a bloodtrail, leaving bits and pieces of Elias’ fancy clothing all over the house.

His rampage slowly abates as Jon comes to his senses, sitting on the floor with a scrap of red fabric between his teeth like a dog. He spits it vindictively onto the floor and stands, wiping away the trail of drool dripping down his chin. His stomach brings him to the fridge and he opens it, pulling out the first container of food he sees.

**I miss you already**, says the note.

Jon’s vision goes white and he slams the glass container to the ground, shattering it and spilling pasta all over the floor. He reaches into the fridge and grabs the next container, ripping it open and dumping its contents into the trash.

“But. _I._ Don’t. Miss. _You!_” Each word is another meal, carefully and condescendingly labeled, dumped into the trash. He doesn’t need Elias, and he will _not_ be treated like a _pet._

He finishes disposing of everything and stands, panting lightly, staring down at the food in the garbage. He finds himself lingering on Elias' words from that morning. They make him sick, make his stomach twist in vicious knots, to think that he expects Jon to stay married to him, after what Elias has _done_ to him. That he expects this to last, this—this _hostage scenario_ lived out historically time and time again. This little play at domesticity that Elias is trying to force him into, has been _training_ him into, the very thought riles the burning anger in his chest. He’d almost rather be simply beaten, but he recalls the pain of his mother, and he drops his head shamefully.

Finally, he feels calm again and he retreats, victorious, into the solitude of the library, content to linger the whole evening and night with no Elias to bother him. He even falls asleep there, curled up with a book of tragic Romantic poetry; it is dry, boring stuff—often way too melodramatic for Jon's taste—but it's a way to pass the hours.

Waking up, sunlight on his face and Elias far, far away is probably the best way he has woken up in a _long_ while.

***

The next two days blur together, baths and reading and sleeping, all his usual routine made new in the silence of the house. He can't leave, sure, but it is plenty peaceful, the _proper_ kind of quiet he hasn't had since the nightmare Elias forced upon him

In one of his longer baths, one lasting nearly seven hours, Jon lounges, humming a tuneless sea shanty, the only movement, that of his foot idly swaying back and forth under the surface. It is calm, the cold a pleasing bite on his skin. In a moment of particularly deep boredom, he glances over at the book he has across the room. He sighs, considering that it's probably time to get out, at least for now. Jon has a few more chapters he wants to get through before sleep finally claims him for the evening.

He sits up slowly, stretching out his stiff back. He moves to pull the plug, then stops, a spiteful, whispering thought creeping in.

Elias absolutely hates it when he leaves the water in the tub, and lets it settle into the chill Jon likes so much. He makes Jon drain it, which seems like a complete waste, and fill it with proper warm water. But there is no Elias today. He leaves the bathtub filled.

The next day, Jon’s bath is even more wonderful. He looks through the kitchen until he finds salt and adds the entire box to the water. It smells fake and manufactured, but ever so slightly more like home. The water is utterly freezing, and Jon adds a little extra until it overflows and spills out onto the floor. He settles into the water, a pleasant, quiet joy creeping over him. 

The only issue Jon has is his hunger, a busy thing clawing away at his guts, making him sway on his feet from time to time. His spinning head makes it harder to focus on reading, but it's fine. Elias will be home soon anyway, and then Jon will no doubt be forced to eat something that isn't that awful rotting food in the kitchen. He considers, bitterly, the times he has been forced to eat all those stupid meals by Elias in the moments he found himself unable to hold down food properly. 

But Elias has left him alone, and finally Jon can control his own body. The excess hunger might hurt now, but something in Jon twists with a cruel pleasure at the idea of Elias coming home to find a rotting mess in his kitchen and a starving, captive husband. Maybe then he will be forced to confront what Jon has known all along. That this isn’t a marriage, it’s a prison, just as much as any iron chains would be. 

Perhaps Jon will even be hungry enough to overcome the compulsion that keeps him from attacking Elias. Jon hasn't heard of that ever happening, but that certainly doesn’t mean it’s _impossible._

Jon continues to ignore his empty stomach, filled with a new determination. His life before this place could be—was often—a lot worse than three days without human food and what feels like too long without proper flesh. Jon has _always_ been a survivor.

The morning of the fourth day he wakes, surprised to still find the house empty, despite the time. Elias promised _three days_, and normally is quite punctual in his comings and goings. Jon honestly expected Elias to arrive last night, late, after he had crawled into their shared bed, finally tiring of the cramped loveseat in the library. 

There is no fresh scent, though, no shuffled blankets to indicate that anyone else has been in the bed. Jon frowns, a worried little twist of his heart making his pulse race. 

No, _no_, Jon is _not_ missing his husband, and he isn’t concerned. Or else, he’s afraid that something might have happened to Elias because if he’s kidnapped or captive somewhere then that would leave Jon here, trapped in this house he cannot escape. Left to starve and rot away in the prison Elias has built for him. He doesn't actually _care_ if the man lives or dies, all that matters is Jon's freedom, whether by death or by escape.

If Elias is _dead_, though, then Jon would be free to find his skin and he could make his way back to the sea, to the vast oceans his heart aches for every morning and night. He can almost taste the salty ocean air on the back of his throat.

This little idea snakes his way deep into his brain, into the part that is mostly instinct and hunger. He leaps out of bed and runs to the front door, wrenching the iron lock and handle open. It hurts, burning his hand. He is nude, too, he realises, but does not care. The open air, chilly, but wonderfully so, greets him like an old friend. When Jon tries to take a step outside, into the open world—

He is stopped. Unable to move his foot past the threshold a single centimetre. 

He tries again to push it through, but that same invisible barrier, the compel, _that stupid order_, that is stuck to his brain and will not wiggle free does not allow him to cross into the sunlight.

Furious, he slams the door, ignoring the sting of the iron handle. He growls, deep in his throat, cutting through the silence. He stomps through the kitchen and considers, for a second, the steak he can smell, only just starting to turn rotten in the trash. _Strength_. He needs that right now. While his adrenaline and anger should have—did—make him stronger, he is still weaker than he should be. 

Flesh, food, he _needs_ it, but that would be allowing Elias to win something else of Jon, something Jon does not want to give up. His last remaining scraps of pride. Frustration blooms in his chest, a warming temper that suppresses his appetite and Jon pulls himself away from the garbage and toward the bedroom again. He rides this fresh wave of anger, tearing up the sheets and pillows, all the things that smell like both Elias and Jon, until they are nothing but strips of silk and feathers. 

When he finally stops, his chest heaving and his hunger back with a vengeance, Jon realizes how foolishly he has spent too much energy on stupid, _useless_ retaliation. Jon curses himself, and shakily makes his way to the master bathroom, where he collapses against the sink.

He pushes himself to standing and gets a look at himself in the mirror, his first close inspection since he cut his hair. He’d spent so much of his life never looking in a mirror, but these days, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from his own face. A mockery of who he once was. 

He looks...haggard, with deep, dark bags under his eyes. They look inhuman, sliding back into the appearance of seal's, endlessly dark like the ocean's depths. They are slipping away from his mother's, and closer to a _monster’s_. His skin is sallow, and he scratches himself hard, just under his ear. It is quick to bleed, quicker than it ought to be. 

He opens his mouth and admires his teeth, and how they have begun to grow sharp and dangerous. Jon had missed them. He prods at a canine with his thumb and it cuts the skin with particular ease. 

_Good._ Jon approves of how feral he looks. If Elias wants a monster for a husband, it is a monster he will get. He deserves it, to see what he has done to Jon with all his rules and casual cruelties.

Jon inspects himself a bit more, his hands, his sharpening nails, his weak pulse, before sliding down and onto the floor. He crawls his way to the bathmat in front of the still full tub he refuses to empty. Jon falls asleep there, energy spent, with one hand over the edge, fingertips draped in the salty water.

***

The fifth day passes in a blur. The most Jon does is leave to fetch the one pillow—his—that he hadn't torn up, and another book, this one a study on cannibalism. Why Elias owns it, Jon does not know. He finds so many human taboos strange, though, and he still wants to understand why they think it such a wicked thing. Flesh is flesh, and the word monster slips out too easily, as if selkies don't already know what they are. 

It's _still_ not technically cannibalism, although he wouldn’t be above eating one of his own kind. If necessary. 

He settles himself beside the tub, leaning against it. The journey to get the two items had taken a lot and Jon had nearly given in and gone to get that steak. The only thing that stopped him was digging his nails into his palms as hard as he could. The scent of his blood in the air brought everything back into sharp focus, and Jon had pushed on, back to the bathroom.

He settles into his book, the pillow to his back, licking the blood off his hands in a half-distracted way.

Hours pass and he finds that the book isn't helping him lose himself. Instead, he finds himself drifting off, his mind split between the pit in his stomach and his endless longing to be free, away from here. After his third major zone out in less than an hour, Jon puts the book and pillow aside, somewhere safe and off the ground, and crawls back into the water. 

He must have fallen asleep because when he awakes, the world outside the small, high window is dark. 

Jon drags himself out of the water a little, stiff and sore. He stretches and the rush of blood makes his head spin until he has to catch himself on the tub's edge. 

How long has it been? Five days now? Or has it crossed over into six? Jon feels his grasp of time slip away like a darting minnow, always just out of reach. All he knows is that Elias should have been back by now, and that this entire vindictive scheme of his is causing him more issues than it no doubt will for Elias. Flesh, the Unblinking, perhaps even _Elias_, whatever might be watching him suffer like this and enjoying it, Jon curses their names. 

_Eat or be eaten._ Elias knows and understands what that means for his kind, where that leaves a peltless, starving, trapped selkie. He proved as much. Jon snorts, letting himself drop onto the tub's edge, muttering viciously, something in him slipping, snapping like a loose thread. He swears he feels the prickle of Elias’ eyes on him, studying him like he's a bug.

"Maybe you don't care? Want me to beg and beg and kneel and _plead_ for you, but I won't do that, I _won't_, I'll die before that. You'll find me dead and I'll have _won_, you'll have lost, your precious captured _monster_ husband, dead and gone, out of your hands with nothing but a useless skin as proof." 

Jon reaches toward where the pillow is, and just barely manages to grasp it and pull it to him, where he curls up with it leaning over the edge. The corner of it dips into the tub but he doesn't care. He continues his tirade, half delusional in his ramblings, unsure if he’s still talking to Elias or to himself.

"Wouldn't grandmother be _proud_? Her little Jonathan captured and held, just like his _mother_. No one to free him, and no one to leave behind when he dies. Mother died in chains and so will I and won't grandmother be so proud? She _warned_ me, told me about humans and I didn’t listen. Too _curious_. Too _needy_. Too _stupid_."

He digs his nails into his arm again, watching the blood seep out of the wounds. He stares at it, enraptured, for a moment. Jon sighs, tired now, his anger evaporating like water under the hot summer sun.

"Who are you to think you're so much better than me, Elias? Treating me like an animal. We’re both animals, Elias, and you'll be eaten too. All you are is _eyes_ and _meat_." Jon curls tighter around his pillow, his stomach whining out a high, pained note. "...but I'm the one who wouldn't eat."

Jon is starting to make less sense, even to himself, but he keeps the chatter up until he falls asleep, too worn out to move. 

***

At first, Jon thinks it is the rumble of his empty stomach that wakes him from his uneasy slumber. His shoulders ache, pressed awkwardly into the sloping sides of the porcelain tub where he passed out a few hours ago, still partially submerged. He’s lucky he didn’t drown in his sleep. He snorts. Wouldn’t _that_ be an ironic death. 

He lets himself drift for a moment in the viciously satisfying delusion of Elias coming home to find his precious _pet_ floating dead into his own tub, until he is shocked out of it by the sound coming again. It wasn’t his stomach after all, he’s sure of it now, it’s the not too distant creak of a door closing shut behind someone.

_Elias._

Jon can’t help the instant rush of relief that slides up his spine and settles at the base of his skull. He hates this weakness in himself, wishes he could reach into his chest and tear out the fear of slowly starving to death alone, ashore, never seeing or speaking to anyone ever again, but it tangles around his lungs and chokes him. Even the humiliating, degrading enslavement Elias forces upon him is better than this slow descent into insanity.

Footsteps are coming up the stairs and Jon hurries to think of how it would be best to be found. Should he stay in the bathtub? Be sitting proudly on his precious tattered sheets? Should he hide and make Elias search for him? Jon rules the last one out as he isn’t sure he has the strength in him to make a run for anywhere. He hears the bedroom door open and close and without thinking, drops the pillow and sinks down in the water until only his eyes and nose peek over the top of it. He isn’t scared of what Elias thinks of the mess he’s made. Isn't afraid of those iron shackles. He _isn’t._

“Well now, whatever could have happened here?” Says an unfamiliar voice from the other room. Jon sits up, shocked, staring at the closed bathroom door. How long has it been since he’s heard a voice that _isn't_ Elias?

He stares, transfixed, as the door slowly opens, revealing a broad man in a dark coat. His eyes are watery blue and most of his face is obscured by a thick, graying beard. There is something oddly familiar about him that Jon cannot immediately place until he realizes he smells like seawater. Not the weak, salty concoction Jon made in the tub, but proper, briny seawater. It sends a wave of nostalgia reeling through him, and he’s glad he’s sitting because his legs are shaking badly.

“You’re not Elias,” Jon says, stupidly. He blames the hunger for the dullness of his mind.

“Funny.” The man’s voice hurts to listen to, as if it’s a recording of a recording of a true human. “I was going to say the same thing about you.”

“_Where is he?_” Jon tries for accusatory, but he falls closer to desperate.

“I only got into port a few hours ago.” The man shrugs and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me, what are you doing here? Elias isn’t particularly fond of having people in his house, I should know, he’s kicked me out once or twice.”

“Maybe you could give me some tips,” Jon replies, bitterly. “He won’t let me _leave._”

“Really? He’s usually a lot subtler than that. What did you do to upset him?”

“Upset _him?_” Jon snarls, suddenly overcome with emotion now that he finally has an outlet. “He’s the one who made me _marry him._”

Finally, the plastic smile falls from the man’s face. He furrows his brow, eyes flicking over Jon’s sallow, pockmarked face, searching for something and not finding it. One step forward, then another, and Jon can smell him even more strongly, that salt and sea air and wood varnish, feel the chill emanating off of him, and beneath it the pulsing heat of _flesh_ that goes straight to his stomach. He eyes the stranger, swallowing the saliva gathering in his mouth as he tracks his movements closer and closer to the tub.

“If he wanted feistier, all he had to do was ask,” the man is saying, but Jon can barely hear him over the blood pounding in his ears. “No need to resort to cruel jokes.”

The man reaches out a hand as if to grab Jon’s arm, but Jon is faster. Urged on by instinct and _hunger_, he lunges forward and bites into the meat of the man’s palm. For one glorious second the man is screaming and there is nothing but the crunch of bone beneath his teeth and the hot flood of blood quenching hunger and thirst and the deeper, coiling _need_ he was only partially aware of.

And then there is nothing. There is no man. There is no **anyone**. Fog rolls cold off the top of the bathwater and even Jon is chilled to the point of shivering. He is struck by the sudden and perfect surety that Elias will _never_ come back to him here. He will not be _freed_, and he will not be _seen_, and he will not be anything ever again except too _cold_ and too _hungry_ and desperately, achingly **_alone._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh good, Peter is here. Now our story can finally achieve full bastard status. But how's Jon gonna get out of the lonely without the power of love??? Martin hasn't even shown up yet! Join us next Tuesday to find out ^_^
> 
> And as always, thank you for commenting, and please hit us up on Tumblr if you wanna talk about the story, or tma in general. We all gotta get through this hiatus together.


	16. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias comes home. So does Jon.

Everything hurts. It's seeped into his bones now, the chill, the hunger, the quiet sounds of distant waves that leave the world feeling even more silent than before. He smells a memory of the ocean, and it leaves him hollow inside. This place has stripped  _ something _ important from him, something he loves, but he cannot place what it was. His tears ran dry a while ago, yet still he weeps, soundless, heaving chest tired, so  _ tired. _

Jon pushes himself to standing. The bathwater running down his shoulders feels oddly distant. A world removed. He craves Elias in a way he cannot explain, like a blanket stripped from him as he slept or breath forced from his lungs, a comfort he can’t quite remember but misses all the same. He  _ aches _ for the presence of his husband. At least there was warmth there, food there,  _ company _ there, no matter how Jon hated it.

Jon can’t hear his own footfalls on the tile as he staggers from the bathroom, his ears full of static. He tries to call out for Elias, and his voice echoes distantly before fading into nothing. It’s as though he’s deep underwater, suspended helplessly. Their bedroom looks just the same as it always has, and Jon tries to focus on his countless memories of Elias sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Jon with fond exasperation. That expression would have made him angry, he thinks. Now all it does is make the dull ache grow worse. 

From the corner of his eye, Jon sees the pile of scraps on the floor, the remains of Elias’ horrible wedding suit. He staggers over to it and grabs for a strip of fabric, clutching desperately to this tiny piece of Elias. But when he presses it to his face he smells nothing. _ There's  _ ** _nothing._ ** The piece of fabric is as empty as this whole, silent world. He rises again and creeps towards the bed, seeking an empty comfort he knows will not be there.

_ Jon. _ Jon closes his eyes and forces himself to remember Elias’ voice. This was his place. They’d been here  _ together. _ The true world isn’t empty.  _ He hasn’t always been alone. _

And then the world rushes back in, noise and warmth and sensation and smells and proper lighting, and Jon’s legs collapse out from under him. He’s caught before he can hit the ground, and the feeling of arms wrapped around him fills his chest to bursting. He can’t remember how to breathe through this level of overstimulation, but that doesn’t stop him from clinging to it, from burying his face in the warm chest,  _ desperate _ to connect, to feel anyone. He breathes in and the scent is achingly familiar.  _ Elias. _

Relief floods through him and then he is crying, wetting the shirt beneath him. He makes no sound, his throat is so tight he fears he has lost the ability to speak or even whimper. 

Everything feels like too much, too loud, too bright, too  _ real. _ Elias strokes his back and hair with the utmost care, gentle and kind, murmuring soft words into Jon's ear. It is a homecoming Jon had never  _ wanted, _ but now he needs. He cannot bring himself to pay attention to anything besides the warm rise and fall of a chest below him, and the heartbeat in his ear, loud, and  _ oh-so-real. _

“—and what was I supposed to  _ think, _ seeing your house trashed and a clear intruder?” Jon flinches away unconsciously from the squealing static in his ears. The man’s voice alone brings back visions of that place, so  _ cold, _ so  _ alone, _ so  _ hungry. _

“Perhaps you could think back to all of the times where I was quite  _ capable _ of handling myself.”

“I wasn’t expecting a  _ thank you, _ but you could at least call off the inquisition here. Isn’t there a saying about the thought being what counts?”

“You took what is  _ mine. _ _ Without permission.” _ Elias’ voice is like ice, and Jon clings in closer, chasing the heat of his body. Even that man’s presence cannot pierce the safety Jon feels, encircled in his husband’s arms. 

“I gave it back!”

Elias’ eye narrow, dangerously. “You  _ hurt  _ my _ husband." _

“Hey now, that was self defense. That  _ thing _ nearly took my whole arm off.”

“Well, Peter.” Elias slides his hand lightly down Jon’s back. “Perhaps next time you’ll be more cautious about sticking your fingers too close to a creature of the Flesh.”

Slowly, Jon’s shuddering begins to drain away under the soft comfort of Elias’ hands. He relaxes his grip on Elias’ shirt, letting himself finally breathe out. He is curled in Elias’ lap, sitting on the bed, face still pressed into the soft fabric over Elias’ chest. He uncurls the hand he’d had in a deathgrip and sees the scrap of suit fabric he’d picked up in that awful world still there. He hears pacing footsteps and assumes it must be Peter, smells the waft of seawater that turns his stomach over. Jon pulls the piece of fabric tighter into his chest, and doesn’t look up.

“So…” Peter begins, his tone softer, trying to soothe the tension, “what  _ is _ it?”

Elias sighs.  _ "He _ is a selkie. You really ought to know this, considering you  _ gave _ him to me.”

Jon pulls himself away from Elias just far enough to twist and see Peter. He fixes him with as cruel a glare as he has the energy to muster. This was the man who’d won his skin and given him away like a tacky trinket? Jon licks his teeth, trying to catch a little bit of the leftover blood, to  _ savor _ the taste. 

“I gave you a  _ coat." _

“Yes.” Elias scratches Jon’s scalp affectionately.  _ "His  _ coat. And he tracked me down in an honestly impressive amount of time.”

Peter stamps his boot heavily against the carpeted floor. “I knew Salaesa said pet. I thought he’d been making a joke, seal pelt, pet seal.”

“And  _ owners _ and  _ husbands _ are rather one and the same for his kind.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Jon croaks, his voice rusty, dry as though he hadn’t spoken in days.

Peter spares a glance at Jon before returning his gaze to Elias with a cool, empty smile. “When were you planning on telling  _ me _ about this little development?”

“We both know you value your  _ privacy _ while you’re off on these trips of yours.”

“And we both  _ know _ you could reach me if you really tried,” Peter shoots back.

“Perhaps I didn’t care to try.” Elias’ hand stills in Jon’s hair. “Especially considering that my marital status at the moment _does not_ _concern_ _you."_

“Fine.” Peter says, his smile twisting into a dark frown. “There’s no point talking to you when you’re acting like this. Come find me when you’re done playing  _ house _ with a fleshling.”

Elias and Jon watch in silence as Peter slams the door behind him, storming down the steps and out of the house.

It takes a long time for Jon to feel safe— _ stable _ —enough to move. The hunger still digs into him, but that  _ emptiness _ is worse, so much worse. Touch is the only thing that seems to drive it away. He doesn't know what to say to Elias. His husband had...had  _ saved _ him, seemingly, he had somehow convinced that awful man, Peter, to let him out of that cold place. 

Elias still has him trapped  _ here, _ though. It stings less than before, thinking about it. Jon was so used to being alone before all this, in his old life in the sea, but now, wrapped in warm arms, he finds the notion suddenly, utterly  _ unbearable. _ Even just imagining the smell of the ocean he longs for turns his stomach, bringing back only thoughts of the man who stole his skin and of that awful, silent place. Yet  _ another _ new cruelty the land has inflicted upon him. His understanding of his grandmother grows everyday, with each new torment.

"Elias…" Jon begins, timidly. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Doesn’t know if he should thank Elias, or plead for his forgiveness. He's soft with Jon, here and now, but he must know that what he has returned home to is Jon's fault. The mess, the carefully prepared meals rotting in the trash, the trail of shredded fabric and pillows. A plan to punish turned back onto its schemer.

Jon closes his eyes and swallows what remains of his cracked and damaged pride. “You came back.”

He sounds weak and he hates himself for it. 

"Of course I did." Elias’ tone is matter-of-fact, perhaps even a little indulgent. "Did you really think I'd leave you on your own?"

Elias punctuates the words with a kiss to Jon's forehead and more gentle strokes down his spine. 

"You said  _ three _ days," Jon mutters, petulantly, a weak echo of his former scorn that is undercut immediately by how he clings a little harder. His nails dig into the fabric of Elias’ sweater, and Jon takes another deep breath, letting the familiar smell calm his trembling hands. He wishes it didn't, but Jon doesn't have the energy to fight his instincts right now on this.

"There was a delay, Jon, it was unavoidable. But if it truly distressed you, I'll try to ensure it doesn't happen again." Elias pulls Jon's chin up so he can brush away what remains of his tears. His fingers are warm,  _ so warm _ on his cheeks. "I’m glad to hear you missed me."

"I—" Jon starts to protest instinctually, then stops.

Elias isn't wrong. Jon  _ had  _ missed him, still missed him, even here in his arms. The first few days hadn’t been so bad, in fact, they were actually rather nice, but whatever Peter had done had twisted it all. That  _ place _ pulled out every awful feeling, accentuated it, and brought it to the forefront of Jon's mind. And the only person he had thought to reach out for was  _ Elias. _ He  _ had _ no one else. The thought left him almost as empty as the biting cold.

Instead of speaking, of admitting his defeat in words, Jon buries his face in the soft fabric of Elias' shirt and nods. Elias, mercifully, only hums in satisfaction. 

They lay curled there for a while longer, rocking gently back and forth, giving Jon more time to gather himself. At last, Elias pulls them apart and leans down to give Jon a small kiss on the lips. 

"Let’s get you some food, Jon."

The way he says it surprises Jon. It’s not angry or upset, instead it's gentle, if chastising. His face burns with shame, and Jon can only nod. He opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut equally quick. He  _ won't _ apologise.

When he tries to stand on his own—pulling away is harder than it should be—he stumbles, legs shuddering underneath him, the lack of food and recent emotional toll hitting his body hard. Elias catches him and wraps an arm around him, supporting half his weight.

It's slow going, each step feels like it takes forever, and every little noise seems far,  _ far _ too loud. He stumbles once or twice over the trail of shredded suits and Jon braces himself, waiting for Elias to comment on his blatant disrespect and violation of so many rules. But he never does. There is no trace of anger or disappointment in his eyes, just careful concern and soft encouragement. When they reach the kitchen, Elias maneuvers him to a chair by the island. 

"Sit, and don't move," he instructs, sounding serious now, beneath the kindness. Jon notices, first, the smell of rotting food. Rot has never bothered him before, but now it turns his stomach. After the salty nothing of that cold world, it is unbearably pungent. He tries not to dwell on it. 

Elias is efficient, disposing of the food on the ground and sweeping up the broken glass, frowning occasionally over at the silent Jon. The mess is his fault, and when he’d made it he’d been looking forward to seeing Elias’ reaction. But now, when Elias softly asks if he’d hurt himself, all Jon can do is flush shamefully and shake his head. This isn’t how it was supposed to feel.

"I'm sorry," he finally chokes out, curling himself as small as possible and deliberately avoiding Elias' eyes. The man says nothing, finishing his work and putting the bag outside, leaving him alone for a mere moment.

That moment is enough to make the fear rise in his chest. His lungs constrict and hold his breath captive. Jon’s brain shorts out in panic and he clutches his hands hard enough to press nail marks into his palms. The world feels too  _ quiet _ and too  _ loud _ and too  _ bright _ all at once and he doesn't know if he can take it. 

Jon is pulled back to reality as Elias grabs his wrists, squeezing them urgently. Jon meets his gaze with a wild panic in his eyes. 

"Calm down, Jon.  _ I’m here. _ It’s alright."

The quiet authority in his voice settles Jon, soothes down whatever was building in his chest, a hysteria that Jon is too scared to name. Slowly, the selkie relaxes his clenched fists. Elias watches him, concerned, but lets go of Jon's wrists, finger by finger.

"I am going to make some food now. Get you something for your empty stomach." 

Elias moves away, and one of Jon's hands twitches, an aborted little movement to grab for his husband. Rather than trying again, Jon breathes, and keeps his eyes firmly on Elias as he prepares the meal. He wraps the strip of suit fabric around his fingers again and again, letting the comforting press of the satin distract him. He tries to find the anger that has led him here, but that part of him just feels...empty.  _ Extinguished.  _

It's a bit hypnotising, watching Elias roll up his sleeves. The quick, expert slicing of vegetables and the sly way they're added to the frying pan. The meat is next, and just the smell fills Jon’s mouth with drool. He can hardly wait for Elias to finish adding the sauce and the finishing touches. 

It's plated and set in front of Jon and finally he pulls his eyes away from Elias to stare at the food before him. It smells better than anything he’s ever eaten, unlike the rest of the meals Elias has prepared. It might just be Jon's hunger speaking, though.

Elias is actually the first to take a bite, reaching across the table to spear a chunk of Jon’s food with his fork as if trying to prove it’s safe. Seeing that, and the accompanying smile, Jon dives in, and eats and eats and  _ eats _ until his plate is empty. 

It isn’t until afterwards, satisfaction curling in his stomach, that he realizes  _ what _ he just ate. He stares at Elias, a little shocked.  _ After everything he’d done?  _

"You— _ really?" _

Elias simply smiles in that mysterious way of his and slides a finger through the last bits of sauce on Jon’s plate before popping it into his mouth with a satisfied smile.

"Did you enjoy the food, Jon?"

The expression is placid, but something gleams in Elias' eyes. Jon can’t help but answer truthfully.

"I, I  _ did. _ Thank you, Elias."

Elias seems happy with the answer and Jon can’t help but be warmed by it. He drops his head to his chest, pleased and sleepy. He doesn't ache anymore, his deep-seated hunger settling into something more manageable. It's still there—it's always there—but he can deal with it now and focus on what's actually more important like...

_ Their bed _ . The one that had its soft sheets and pillows destroyed in Jon's vindictive anger. 

Too late, he regrets his hasty actions. He had actually  _ liked _ those sheets, the silk soft and smooth, and sometimes cold like the slide of the ocean against his skin. His pillow is still okay, but the rest is beyond salvaging, feathers and fabric reduced to tatters. Elias will almost certainly make him pay for that, he assumes, when he is less worn out and more himself. 

“I think it’s about time for bed, don’t you?” Elias says, as if he is reading Jon’s thoughts. Maybe he is. He catches Jon’s guilty eyes and smiles. “Let’s be grateful I keep a well stocked linen cabinet.”

Jon feels strong enough to push himself to his feet and make his own way back upstairs, holding his arms out obediently as Elias piles sheets and blankets and a pillow on him.

“Now, that should be enough for you, I think. The rest will be for me,” Elias says with a decisive nod.

Jon blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Our time apart has given me some clarity, Jon. I don’t want to be your taskmaster, despite the opinions you might hold of me. I tried to force you to act like my husband, but that was unfair of me. It’s clear you prefer sleeping in the library.” Elias smiles, blandly. “Please, feel free.”

Jon’s chest swirls with warring emotions. “Oh. Right. Okay.”

“You’re quite welcome, Jon.”

Elias dismisses him with a nod and gathers his own sheets before disappearing into their bedroom and closing the door behind him. Jon stands for a few moments more, feeling foolish, before he makes his way to the library. He does his best to settle the bedding into a makeshift nest on the loveseat. Just two days ago, sleeping here felt like a rare treasure, but now it is cramped and cold and  _ empty _ . Jon can’t bring himself to turn off the lights, the silence that falls over the room sinks into his bones and leaves him shivering. He presses his face into the blanket, trying to let the texture soothe his frayed nerves. Jon breathes in, but it smells like nothing, and in spite of everything, Jon finds himself wishing it was the soft expanse of Elias’ chest. He pulls the scrap of suit up to his face and rubs his cheek against it, but even that small comfort can not assuage his loneliness. 

Finally, he can’t bear it anymore. Jon stands, grabs his pillow, and makes his way down the quiet hall to Elias’ bedroom. He stands at the door, debating whether or not to knock, when Elias’ voice calls out from within.

“Come in, Jon.”

Jon pushes the door open just enough to peer around it. The mess of fabric he’d left is gone, and in its place, a bulging garbage bag sits propped in the corner. He sees Elias, sitting up in bed, lamp still on and a book open on his lap. He smiles warmly at Jon. A clear invitation. One that Jon accepts after a moment of hesitation, stepping fully into the room and walking over to slide under the covers beside his husband. He fluffs his pillow a moment before curling up on it, and then, almost as an afterthought, he reaches out and grips the hem of Elias’ shirt with one fist. Just a little assurance that he’s there and can’t go far. Elias, thankfully, doesn’t comment.

“Elias?” Jon speaks hesitantly, not sure what he is about to ask.

“Hm?”

“What you said to Peter. About...about  _ me." _ Jon licks his lips, trying to sort through his thoughts. “Are you my husband or just my owner?”

Elias looks away from his book and down at Jon, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s quite a question, Jon. I thought my opinions didn’t  _ matter _ to you.”

“Well they matter now.” Jon squeezes Elias’ shirt. “Answer the question.”

“Both legally and by selkie culture, we are married. We had a ceremony. You were there.”

“That’s  _ not _ what I’m asking.”

“Use your words, Jon.” Elias tangles his fingers loosely in Jon’s hair and Jon nearly whimpers just from the slight contact. Their eyes lock, and something sputters in his chest.

“Do you...do you actually  _ love _ me?”

Elias’ hand scratches Jon’s scalp absentmindedly, and the silence drags out between them. When Elias finally speaks, his voice is measured and dignified, but oddly genuine. 

“I’ve never been much of a romantic, but if I had to guess at what love is, I’d say it’s what I feel for you, Jonathan.” Elias smooths his fingers along the line of Jon’s skull. “I love you as much as I am capable of, and I believe that, moving forward, the time we spend together will help me expand my capacity in that regard.”

Jon stares up at Elias, wishing he could read his intentions, like a book, bound and defined. But for now, he just has to live with what he’s given. 

“Turn off the light,” Jon says, tugging gently at Elias’ shirt to coax him to lay down. Elias obliges him, switching off his lamp and settling down beside Jon. He throws an arm over Jon’s hips and Jon almost wishes it wasn’t quite so warm or quite so comforting. But there is still a knot of loneliness in his chest, so he edges in closer to Elias and tucks his head under his chin.

“Next time,” Jon says, “if you  _ say _ three days, make  _ sure _ it’s three days.”

Elias hums in quiet assent, and they drift off in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amount of comments last chapter!! We were utterly blown away by them and all the great responses!!
> 
> Onto other news: We're taking a two week hiatus posting this due to real life catching up and us wanting to write ourselves a little bit of a safety net so we can keep posting weekly. We'll post our next chapter on December 3rd, keep an eye out and thank you for your patience. 💜
> 
> As always, feel free to come ask us questions/talk about this fic or the Magnus Archives!


	17. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds new company in an old place.

Since waking up in Elias’ arms, Jon has been trailing him around like a puppy, never letting him out of sight. He’s disgusted with himself, acting this way; like a pet on a leash, or a child afraid of the dark. Jon sits, legs folded, on their bed, as Elias does up the buttons on his shirt in comfortable silence. He hasn’t brought up yesterday at all. Jon had hoped perhaps Elias would stay home from work today, after having been gone so long and after seeing how Jon clung to him, but it doesn’t seem to be the case.

_Do you actually love me?_

Jon shakes the memory of his own voice out of his head violently, the tips of his ears going red. A moment of weakness, that’s all, brought on by that awful place and the torturous week he’d had. It didn’t mean anything, and _clearly_ it hadn’t meant anything to Elias either. Nothing has changed, and that’s...good, easier to deal with. 

Elias looks over at him, an exasperated smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and Jon stops shaking his head, promptly embarrassed beyond measure. “Are you going to get dressed?”

“What?” Jon looks down at himself and then up at Elias, cocking his head curiously. “Why?”

“The institute has a rather strict policy on clothing, I’m afraid.”

Jon straightens with a jolt, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging open in a little gasp. “Really?”

Elias turns back to face his full length mirror, ignoring Jon’s excitement in favor of continuing to dress. “Clearly the house isn’t quite the stronghold I’d imagined it might be. I’d prefer not to leave you here to potentially be attacked in my absence. Besides,” Elias’ eyes flick to meet Jon’s in the mirror, “I assume you’d rather _not_ be alone?”

“_Yes,_” Jon agrees, too quickly and almost breathless. He vaults off the bed and rushes for the drawers where Elias put away all the clothing he’d bought him. Outside the house, he's finally being allowed _outside the house_! Jon hasn’t been outside since the wedding, and he hadn’t _exactly_ been in the state of mind to enjoy it then. He nearly tears his trousers in his rush to put them on, his head awhirl with imagining the taste of the air and the feeling of the naked sun on his skin. Maybe it will even be raining, and Elias will let him tilt his head back and drink it right from the sky.

Jon pauses, furrowing his brow. Since when did he wait on _Elias’ permission_ to do things?

“The burgundy would look nice with those,” Elias says, pressing a jumper into Jon’s arms. It is soft. _Everything_ Elias bought him is damnably soft, not scratchy and distracting the way Jon had always assumed wearing clothes would be. He slides the burgundy jumper on and Elias smooths it over his chest, letting his hands rest for a moment above the beating of Jon’s heart. He smiles and Jon’s stomach twists. “Very handsome, Jon.”

_Do you actually love me?_

Jon barely gets to be outside at all, in the end. He nearly drops to his knees with relief when he takes his first step over the threshold of the house, but Elias holds him back from rolling in the grass, warning him about staining his fresh clothes. It seems like a silly concern to Jon, but Elias is intent about bundling him straight into the car, and Jon doesn’t want to risk Elias changing his mind about this little excursion.

When they get to the Institute, a huge, intimidating stone structure, Jon only gets a few lungfuls of morning air while staring up at it before Elias puts his hands on his shoulders and leads him inside. 

“I wanted to look at it,” Jon whines as he’s pushed through the doors. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since he was here last.

“Don’t worry,” Elias chides, steering him down a dim hallway, “you’ll see _plenty_ of this place.”

The interior is musty, and it smells older than Elias’ house. There’s dust building up in the corners. Jon can't help but wonder why Elias allows such a thing. He tries to keep his house immaculate, after all, so why not here too?

A few people pass them as they walk. They shoot odd looks at Jon. He draws his shoulders up to his ears, scowling down at the floor. He hears Elias behind him, greeting each by name and they slide through his mind like water.

“Rosie, you remember Jonathan.”

Jon looks up and sees the sweet-faced woman who’d brought him tea when he’d first come to speak with Elias. She readjusts the half-moon glasses perched at the tip of her nose and smiles with genuine warmth as if she’d been waiting desperately all these weeks to reconnect with him. Jon's face flushes.

“Of course! It’s good to see you, dear. You’re looking much better.” Rosie shakes her head and laughs, even though nothing is funny. “You were quite a sight last time! All a-wreck and wild-eyed like some kind of specter. If Elias hadn’t told me he was expecting you, I might have phoned the police!”

“...Expecting me,” Jon echoes, furrowing his brow. The words settle like the cold weight of the depths around his shoulders.

Elias grips Jon’s arm just a hair too tight. “Right, well, I told them all about your awful accident, Jon. No one could be expected to be pulled together after something like that.”

“Accident,” Jon parrots, hollowly. The roaring in his ears only intensifies.

“If you need anything, you just let me know, sweetheart.” Rosie taps her hand against her desk decisively. “Three sugars, right?”

“Uh, five.” Jon manages to say, but can’t tear his mind away from Elias’ grip on his arm. “Five sugars.”

“A little sluggish this morning, are we? I get it. I was a newlywed once.” Rosie is laughing again and Jon cannot understand why. It fills his lungs and he feels desperate to be anywhere away from here.

“Oh hush, Rosie. You’ll embarrass him,” Elias says with a smile, and thankfully pulls Jon into his office, shutting the door behind them.

***

Elias’ office is not nearly as interesting as Jon had hoped it would be. He wastes a bit of time puttering around the edges, opening drawers, sniffing at plants, but his eyes keep wandering to where Elias is sitting and working quietly at his desk. Each time he does, Elias seems to be purposefully not looking up, even though Jon is sure he’s aware. Finally, bored and exasperated, Jon turns to face Elias, fidgeting with his fingers in the fabric of his trousers.

“Use your words, Jon,” Elias says, glancing up at Jon from the corner of his eye, his lips quirking into a grin. Jon folds his arms tightly against his chest.

“I’m cold,” he says. He does not say _please touch me_ but from the way Elias’ grin spreads Jon assumes he knows. He rolls his chair back from his desk and swivels towards Jon, opening his arms wide in a clear invitation. Jon doesn’t hesitate as long as he should before he sits on Elias’ lap, tucking his head into the curve of Elias’ jaw. Elias smooths a warm hand up and down Jon’s arm.

“I don’t mean to take you away from your work,” Jon mumbles, although even if Elias had asked him to leave he isn’t sure he _could_. The gentle soothing of his touch and the warmth of his chest is almost hypnotizing, the way it settles his racing heart.

“Nonsense. You’re a welcome distraction.” Elias kisses Jon’s forehead, and it feels like heat is blooming from that spot. “Besides, I can work around you.”

Elias rolls his chair back in, trapping Jon gently between his chest and the sharp wooden edge of the desk. He reaches around Jon like an embrace, and resumes writing what he was working on before, albeit a bit slower and more awkwardly. Jon spends a few minutes happily curled into Elias’ warmth, letting it chase away the loneliness tangled in his ribs. Then, bored, he starts peering at the papers on Elias’ desk, trying to parse through the thick legalese and confusing contracts.

“Would you like me to show you what I’m working on?” Elias asks with humor clearly in his voice, but it doesn’t sound sarcastic and Jon is genuinely curious about what a big institution like this (a temple to the Unblinking, he reminds himself) runs like. Elias seems to sense his interest and starts rooting through a stack of paper before pulling out something for Jon to read.

“This is a request for funding,” Elias says, resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder so that he can reach around properly and hold up the form where they can both see. “My archivist recently swindled the Institute into paying for a trip to America.”

“Your archivist?” Jon asks and Elias turns his head in and kisses the side of Jon’s neck. Jon can't help the way his eyelids flutter in pleasure.

“Gertrude Robinson. She’s rather a pain to work with.”

“What does she do?”

“She archives,” Elias says, unhelpfully, and kisses Jon’s neck again. “She catalogues all of the statements given to the institute and keeps them properly filed.”

“Well then what was she doing in America?” Jon asks, growing a bit breathless from the way Elias has leaned in more and more and is letting his kisses linger all up and down the side of Jon’s throat. He tilts his head to the side and Elias takes the invitation, latching his mouth onto Jon’s collarbone and sucking the skin between his teeth. Jon closes his eyes and feels the hot rush of blood coming to the surface of his skin where Elias is biting him. It tingles.

Elias pulls just far away enough from his skin to whisper, “you’re still so _cold_, Jonathan.” 

Jon shivers, and nods.

Elias runs a hand down the curve of Jon’s jaw and turns his head until they’re facing each other. Jon has so much time, so many long moments of deep hungry eye contact to pull away, but he doesn’t move. He looks down at Elias’ lips, then back up at his eyes, and then Elias leans in and kisses him. Jon does his best to squirm around in Elias’ lap to face him, trying to press up closer to him, steal _more_ of his warmth.

When Elias plants a hand at the base of Jon’s neck and pushes him in closer, Jon moans through his nose, an embarrassingly _needy_ noise that he cringes to hear himself make. But he can’t seem to pull himself away. Between the heat and the proximity, it's dizzyingly addictive.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps Jon out of his trance. He pushes off of Elias’ chest and whips around, red in the face, to see a stern older woman standing at the door looking _deeply_ unimpressed. Her gray hair is pulled back into a severe bun that tugs at the wrinkles on her face, and her mouth is a tight line. Underneath him, Elias seems entirely unperturbed by being caught in such a compromising position. He smooths out his tie with one hand while shooting a charming smile at the woman at the door. His other hand still lingers on Jon’s hip where his jumper has rucked up just a bit to show his skin.

“Can I help you with something, Gertrude?”

“If you could find me a more professional boss that would be a start.” The woman, Gertrude Robinson, Jon assumes, takes a step into the room. “If you’re going to have an open door policy the least you can do is have some public decency.”

“I suppose a person of your temperament wouldn’t exactly understand the concept of _wedded bliss_.”

Gertrude’s eyes somehow become even colder. If he hadn’t been embarrassed beyond measure, Jon might have turned to curl back up and hide in Elias’ chest.

“If you’re able to _focus_ for a moment, Elias, I’d like to debrief about some of my recent findings.”

“Of course. Duty calls, darling.” Elias leans in and kisses Jon chastely on the cheek before shooing him off his lap. “Go run along and entertain yourself for a bit while I speak with Gertrude. We have a lovely library here, I’m sure Rosie can point you in the right direction.”

Jon hesitates for a moment, a knot of anxiety about separating from his husband curling up into his chest, but he doesn’t exactly want to stay in this room with the atmosphere that’s building. He's been in wild storms less dangerous. Jon bites his lip, nods, and makes to slip out of the room.

His way to the door is briefly blocked by the intimidating Ms. Robinson, and he stops, fixed to the spot by her eyes.

“Have we _met_ somewhere before?” She asks, and Jon rushes to shake his head. He would have remembered if he’d ever met someone like this. Gertrude purses her lips and narrows her gaze. “Your eyes look so familiar.”

“Can we get to our business, please?” Elias calls. Gertrude looks away, giving Jon the opportunity to escape. He shuts the door behind him quickly, and as he makes his way down the hall towards Rosie’s desk he barely hears the muffled beginnings of their conversation.

“What did you say his name was?”

“My husband is none of your concern, Gertrude.”

***

The library is so much _more_ than Jon anticipated.

Rosie leaves him there alone once she shows him the way, but in his amazement Jon entirely forgets to be lonely. He spends a few minutes entirely overcome and unable to pick a book, simply staring at the rows and rows of colorful cloth bound spines and shiny plastic. He runs his fingers along them, delighting in how far he can walk before running out of bookshelf. He stops in a dark corner where the books look so old their bindings are disintegrating and spends a full minute with his nose buried between them, breathing in the soothing smell. 

It’s like heaven.

Jon finally picks a book at random (a history of eastern religion) and settles down on the floor to read it. He leans back against a bookshelf and lets himself get absorbed. When he gets bored of the topic—it’s hard to keep his attention on one book while surrounded by so much potential—he simply grabs a new one from wherever is within reach. Eventually he is sitting in a small nest of books and he’s never felt happier or more comfortable in his life.

“Sorry, are you lost?” 

Jon is pulled out of his thoughts by a soft voice, and he snaps his head up. Hovering over him is a young looking man with soft, round cheeks and worried eyes. His hair looks like a frizzy halo around his head, all the flyaways caught in the harsh fluorescent lights. Jon blinks a few times against the sudden brightness.

“I don’t recognize you, do you need help with something?” The man tries again, his face pulling into a smile.

“No.” Jon itches to return to his book, but this man smells like some kind of citrus that Jon can’t quite place and it’s driving him up the wall. He won’t be able to focus with it around.

“Oh.” The man’s smile falters for a moment, but he forges on. “You really shouldn’t be sitting here, or leaving all these books on the floor. Would you like to work at my desk? I have an extra chair, I’m sure it would be easier to....accomplish whatever you’re trying to research there.”

Jon straightens up a little. “You work here.”

“Um, yes? I mean...yes, I’ve been working here for quite a few years now.” The man scratches the back of his head and dandruff floats off him, caught like snow in the harsh light.

Jon puts his book aside and scrambles to his feet. Even standing he has to tilt his head to look up at the man.

“Can you tell me what you know about Gertrude Robinson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies!! Did you miss us? We had a very busy hiatus but we're both super excited to be back and bringing fresh selkie content to all of you. I know you guys have been on the edge of your seats waiting for this, your favorite character, the long-awaited.....GERTRUDE ROBINSON.
> 
> Oh and also this mysterious sweet tall stranger with the cute hair :D
> 
> As always, we love and appreciate comments with all our hearts and souls, and you can also come yell at us directly on our Tumblrs! We're fun and crave interaction. See you next Tuesday!


	18. Tea With Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Blackwood is having a bad week.

Martin Blackwood is having a very bad week. The worst part is, there is no one to blame but himself. He’d known he had the Richardson investigation deadline coming up and he’d still let himself get distracted, and he’d dropped his favorite pen on the subway, and he hadn’t brushed his hair before going to see his mom over the weekend so of course she’d rightly pointed out that he looked like a dirty child and no son of hers. He’d deserved it, looking like that.

Now here he was  _ wasting _ more of the time he didn’t have fetching tea for some man who probably wasn’t even supposed to be here because he was too nervous to ask for ID. And all because the man had lovely thick smooth hair and high cheekbones and these oddly dark eyes, and Martin has all the moral fortitude of a repressed teenager at a boy/girl dance. 

He couldn’t have just  _ left _ him there, though, on the floor. It wasn't proper and he  _ looked _ ...Martin wasn’t sure. Lost, maybe? Just a bit out of place somehow.

“Hey, Martin?” Martin looks up from his intense inspection of the electric kettle as Tim leans against the counter beside him. “Who’s the guy at your desk? Some kinda witness?”

“I’m not  _ actually _ sure,” Martin replies, trying to force some casual laughter into his answer so Tim doesn’t immediately turn around and tell their supervisor that Martin has a stranger at his desk. Not that Tim would do that. He’s a nice sort of guy, even seems to like  _ Martin  _ of all people, and thankfully, he isn’t very big on authority anyway. He has a kind of mild, harmless, bad boy streak. It’s  _ attractive. _ _ Everything _ about Tim is attractive.  _ Christ, _ Martin needs to get laid before this mind of his gets him into trouble. “I found him in the library and, well, I mean, he got in somehow, so he’s probably fine?”

Tim lets out a low whistle. “Scandalous, Martin. Sneaking _mysterious sexy_ _trespassers_ around the Institute. Didn’t realize you were the type.”

“I’m  _ not," _ Martin protests, his voice squeaking to match the whistle of the kettle. “I’m sure he has a reason to be here, and everyone appreciates a cup of tea, regardless of their relative levels of hotness, which is  _ not  _ even a factor here.”

“Uh huh.” Tim pops the cabinet above his head and pulls out three mugs. “Got enough tea there for me too, or would that be sending mixed messages?”

_ "Tim." _

Tim laughs and Martin pours the tea, and by the time he’s done adding milk and sugar to his and Tim’s mugs, he feels the coil of oddly nervous energy in his chest begin to unravel. He snags a squeezy bear of honey and some packets of sugar and slips them into his pocket. He’s just gonna have to hope the man doesn’t need milk in his tea.

“So what are you going to do if he actually  _ is _ an intruder, here to steal all our ghost secrets?”

“Ha ha.” Martin closes the fridge with his hip and gently picks up his two mugs. “I guess, I dunno, I guess I’ll escort him out? We don’t exactly have  _ security." _

Tim raises an eyebrow and blows at the steam rising from his cup. “Who needs security when we have vigilant employees like you making sure criminals get a cup of tea?” 

“We’re a non-profit research organization, Tim. What’s the worst he could do?”

***

“Sorry for the wait,” Martin says, smiling his best customer service smile as he puts the mug down in front of the man. He’s fallen a bit out of practice with it after having worked at the Institute for so long, but he’s used to putting on a positive front. In the time since Martin went to the little kitchenette, the man had resumed his reading, and he barely lifts his eyes from the text to acknowledge Martin’s return.

“What’re you reading there?” Martin tries again, settling into his own chair and scooching a bit closer to the stranger.

Again, those odd, dark eyes flick up and catch Martin breathlessly in their depths. They narrow just a bit and Martin is afraid for a second that maybe he asked something wrong even though that’s ridiculous. He has nothing to be  _ afraid _ of. Why should he be afraid?

“The title is facing you.” The stranger’s voice thrums through Martin, deep and baritone. He isn’t sure which makes him blush first, the rumble of his words or the condescending tone.

“I was just trying to start a conversation.”

“Interesting choice, with someone who’s clearly reading something.”

Martin’s face twists into a frown, the barely restrained annoyance showing through the crease in his forehead. “Are you a grad student?”

“A what?”

“Are you here from a University?” Martin tries again, over-pronouncing the word to make sure it gets through the man’s head.

“No. I don’t... _ should _ I be?” Finally the man looks up properly from his book and stares at Martin, fully confused.  _ How _ did this guy get in here?

“Well I’m pretty sure we don’t employ anyone to sit on the floor of the library and unshelve a bunch of books and read all day. So how about you drink your tea,” Martin slides the still-steaming mug across his desk purposefully, “and tell me who you are?”

“I’m Jon Si—, J-Jon B—, uh,” The man, Jon, snaps his mouth shut. He pulls the book in tight to his chest, crushing pages against his jumper. His wild eyes dart around in spontaneous panic. “Jonathan, I’m, my name is Jonathan...Jonathan…”

“Hey, hey hey hey, deep breaths,” Martin half rises from his seat, holding a calming hand out across the desk. “You’re  _ okay, _ it’s okay.”

Martin, of course, has no idea if it’s okay. Or what’s going on. It just seemed like the kind of thing he should be saying? A deeply selfish notion Martin holds close to his heart, is that he has the potential to help the people around him. He just has to  _ say _ the right things.  _ Do _ the right things.

“So,” Martin says slowly, when Jon calms down a bit, “do you prefer Jon or Jonathan?”

“Jon,” says Jon, finally reaching out and taking the mug of tea that Martin has to imagine has gotten a bit cold at this point. He eyes it suspiciously and Martin hurries to reassure him.

“Oh, I didn’t put anything in it. Didn’t know how you took it so I just…” Martin pulls the handful of sugar packets and the honey bear out of his pocket and drops them near Jon’s hand. “However much you want. There’s more. And milk, if you want milk.”

Jon bobs a thankful nod and reaches for the honey. His thin fingers are still shaking a bit as he fumbles with the cap and honey spills out onto the stretch of skin between thumb and forefinger. Jon has it halfway to his mouth with his tongue extended before he seems to remember himself and he straightens up with a flushed face and a dignified scowl.

It’s  _ adorable. _

__

Martin really shouldn’t be thinking this way about a complete stranger who’s clearly in some kind of distress, but honestly between the elegant curve of his wrists and the curiously earnest affect Martin keeps spotting behind his reserved character, it’s hard not to wind up just  _ a bit _ fond. And there’s nothing wrong with finding a stranger attractive. It’s  _ normal. _ People go home with random strangers they meet in bars all the time. Not that Martin is  _ hoping _ to go home with Jon. Not that Martin thinks Jon would want to go home with  _ him. _

__

Jon wraps his hands around the mug, pressing it into the hollow of his throat as if hoping to leech a bit of warmth from the ceramic. Martin follows the line of his arms to his shoulders and realizes they’re shaking ever so slightly, a barely constrained shiver.

__

“Hey, are you cold?” Martin could hit himself for not realizing sooner, now that he’s noticed, he can see that Jon looks positively freezing. It’s not excessively chilly in the library, though they usually keep the heat down a bit for the sake of the books, but it is late February outside and the cold has a tendency to creep in. Martin stands and grabs his own jacket off the back of his chair. In a single, poorly considered sweep of his arms, Martin drapes his puffy, blue winter coat over Jon’s thin shoulders.

__

Martin realizes his mistake almost instantly. He  _ freezes, _ arm still a little extended towards Jon, too late to stop himself from wrapping his coat around a  _ stranger _ as if Jon was some maiden in a romantic comedy. Jon is staring at him like he can’t quite understand what has just happened and Martin is inclined to agree with him. He lets out a bit of a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He can’t quite figure out if tearing it back off Jon would make this moment more or less awkward, but every second that crawls past them is certainly not making it  _ better. _

__

“Um,” says Jon.

__

_ “You looked cold!” _ Martin blurts back, because his favorite pastime is digging his own grave as deep as possible.

__

“Are you  _ giving this to me? _ ” Jon asks with a strained disbelief in his voice.

__

“I just figured you could  _ borrow _ it. If you want? While you’re here. And...cold.”

__

Jon reaches out and touches the edge of the jacket with such tenderness, pulling it slightly tighter around his shoulders. It’s far too big on him, even without his arms in the sleeves Jon looks positively  _ swallowed _ by it. His eyes are wide and soft and dark and Martin wants to reach out again and wrap his arms around the jacket and Jon inside it and keep him safe and warm.

__

“Or you could keep it!” Martin says, without thinking. “I mean. If you want it. If you don’t have a coat. I have another at home, I think. No, I mean, I  _ definitely  _ own more than one coat, so if you like this one you could have it.” Martin is pretty sure this is his only winter jacket, but  _ reason _ and  _ sense _ are not exactly the prevailing emotions in his mind right now.

__

“I’m not going to  _ take _ your coat,” Jon says, a bit flustered. “But thank you.”

__

“Yeah. Of course.” Martin drops back into his chair with a thump and studiously avoids eye contact until the blood rushing in his ears settles down.

__

“So,” he picks up nervously once he’s calmer, “you asked about, um, about Ms. Robinson?”

__

Jon sits up a little straighter, his eyes sharpening with hungry interest. “Yes. Could you tell me about her?”

__

“There’s not much to tell?” Martin brings his shoulders up to his ears apologetically. “I mean, I don’t know her personally? She doesn’t come around here much, I see her in the library sometimes when she’s doing research, and I’ve seen people coming through to give their statements directly to her. She’s a sweet lady, been working here  _ way _ longer than anyone else I can think of. Do you... _ know _ her? Is  _ that _ why you’re here?”

__

“What? No.” Jon’s tone dismisses Martin as if he’d asked the most inane question in the world. “No I just need to know what she  _ does." _

__

“Well, she’s usually in the archives, so the people down there might have a better idea than I do, but it’s off-limits to the public.” Martin taps the side of his mug, trying to think. “Also, I’m pretty sure everyone who used to work down there has quit...or, yeah, quit or  _ something, _ and haven’t been replaced? I don’t know there’s not a lot of overlap in communication between the departments, which is probably why this place runs so poorly. But I’m  _ pretty sure _ she’s the only one still down there.”

__

Martin twists his tea back and forth between his palms. “Poor thing. Must be lonely.”

__

Jon places his half-drunk mug down on Martin’s desk and pushes to his feet. “She’s the only one who works there? Perfect timing.”

__

“Wait, what?” Martin rises as well and holds out a hand to Jon. It feels like if he doesn’t physically restrain this guy he’ll go bounding straight into the first restricted area he can find. And while Martin is  _ pretty sure _ they have nothing meaningful to steal, he knows they  _ definitely _ have some dangerous stuff downstairs. “You can’t  _ go  _ there. I literally just said it was off-limits.”

__

“Those are the most important sort of places to go.” Jon pulls a bit at the neckline of his shirt, scratching nervously at his collarbone, and Martin’s mouth goes dry. There, at the base of his throat, is a perfectly round, purpling hickey, just starting to darken into existence. Martin’s traitorous brain spins in a thousand different directions all at once. His mouth flops open and closed like a fish.

__

Jon turns to leave. Presumably to go to the very restricted archives where he is  _ not _ allowed to be. He isn’t even supposed to be in the  _ library _ let alone downstairs! Martin struggles his way through the beginnings of a dozen words that die unformed in stammering as he watches Jon start to walk away from him. Before he can think through his actions, his hand darts out and grabs Jon by the wrist, pulling him to a halt. He’s so small, and his wrist is so thin, it’s effortless to stop him. Jon whips around to face him, dark eyes wide and  _ terrified. _

__

_ Makes sense. Martin Blackwood, you idiot. It’s like you’ve never interacted with a human being before. _

__

“You can’t go there. And you can’t be here!”

__

“What?” Jon looks genuinely confused, his eyes flicking between Martin’s face and the hand still closed around his wrist.

__

“This library. It’s for authorized...people only. You need to have like, an ID. Or papers.” Martin lets his breath out in a quick, exasperated noise. “How did you even get in here?”

__

Jon blinks and his expressive eyes go dark and cold. Closed off. Like someone drew the blinds on the windows to his soul and Martin is left shivering on the street corner.

__

“My husband brought me here.”

__

Martin’s stomach drops. “Your husband?”

__

“His husband.” Martin drops Jon’s wrist in panic as his boss (his  _ boss  _ boss, head of the whole company kind of boss) strides smoothly into view. Of course. Of  _ course _ . Perfect addition to the week from hell, get caught  _ flirting _ with Elias Bouchard’s disturbingly cute husband. Only Martin could manage to fall into a hole  _ this _ deep. A hole filled with sawblades and spike traps and fire. Elias Bouchard’s husband. Martin wants to sink into the floor and then keep going until he melts in the magma at the core of the planet.

__

“Was my Jonathan bothering you, Martin?” Elias steps around until he’s behind Jon and wraps a possessive arm around his waist. Martin’s eyes flick to the edge of the hickey still just barely visible above Jon’s collar and his face goes to a somehow even deeper scarlet.

__

“B-bothering me?  _ No _ . No, no, definitely not. I’d say, I mean,  _ I _ was bothering  _ him _ moreso, really.” Martin laughs and almost chokes on it. He waves his hands quickly.

__

“What is this, Jon?” Elias’ attention has already swept past Martin and focused on his husband, leaving Martin feeling equal parts relieved and insignificant. Elias picks at the sleeve of Martin’s jacket which is still draped across Jon’s shoulders. “Where did you pick this thing up?”

__

“Oh, that’s mine,” Martin shoves his way back into the conversation as ungracefully as possible. “I thought...he looked cold, so I was just trying to….”

__

“How  _ considerate.” _ Elias lifts the jacket from Jon’s shoulders with just his fingertips as if worried that it’ll dirty his skin and holds it out to Martin. “He has his  _ own _ coat, however, in my office. He has no need for another.”

__

“Right right, of course.” Martin grabs his coat and holds it tight into his chest. He glances at Jon who has been standing silently, staring at his husband, but he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything either for  _ or _ against Martin. It could be worse, he supposes.

__

“Thank you for... _ entertaining _ him, Martin. I’ll take him out of your hair now.” Elias smiles a frigid smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and slips his arm around Jon’s hips again so he can guide him away.

__

“Yes, uh, thank you, Mr. Bouchard, have a nice day.” Martin bobs in a nervous half nod, half bow thing that he regrets as soon as he does it.  _ You have a brain, Blackwood, try using it. _

__

“Just Elias is fine,” Elias says, and turns him and Jon around to leave. Before they get too far, Jon turns his head shyly and looks back. In that moment, so small and so dark, peeking out from beneath Elias’ arm like that, Martin can’t help but think Jon looks like a princess being pulled away by the evil count, tucked under his cape and begging the hero to save her. 

__

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says,  _ just _ loud enough for Martin to hear. Jon says his name carefully, like he’s testing it out on his tongue. Martin almost says something back, but nothing comes to him, and then the moment and Jon are gone.

__

He sits down heavily in his desk chair, dropping his coat on the floor and pillows his head in his arms.

__

_ Christ,  _ Martin needs to get laid before this mind of his gets him into trouble.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments! They keep us going.💜
> 
> Come find us on our tumblrs. We always like to talk!


	19. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds only more questions at the Magnus Institute.

Jon spends the next few days at the Institute happily occupied in Elias’ office. Elias shows him some of the more interesting managerial aspects, lets him sit quietly and listen while he takes meetings, and brings in a few books from the library so that Jon can entertain himself. He spends many rather pleasant hours curled up in Elias’ lap, or leaned against his knee, or sitting in a soft, highbacked chair in the corner of the office. The occasional sound of rustling paperwork or the low mutters of his husband nearby is enough to chase away the lingering chill. 

But after only a few days, even the cold loneliness in his bones can’t keep him from getting antsy. Elias looks up at him as he uncurls from his awkward position on the soft, velvet chair, smiling fondly. 

"Going somewhere?" Elias watches him with interest and beckons Jon over.

"I’m bored." Jon doesn't even think before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to Elias' cheek. He leans into the arm that wraps around his waist as if he fits naturally at Elias’ side. “I’m going to go explore.”

"Very well. Enjoy yourself, and tell me what you learn later, won't you?" Elias says, and pulls Jon down for a peck on the lips.

"Of course," Jon answers, and gives a little wave to Elias when he's halfway out the door. The man looks warm for a moment, before his eyes drop to the paperwork waiting for his attention.

Jon walks aimlessly through the Institute, trying to get a proper sense of the layout. It's a vast place, filled to the brim with knowledge, new things to _know_, and Jon wants to learn them _all_. What better place than here to get the full human experience? 

A proper smile creeps onto his face, ignoring the odd glances the staff give him as he passes. 

Some of them look at him like he is a particularly delicious meal, and others, like he’s an oddity. Jon figures it’s as Elias said. The staff are curious about the boss’ new husband. 

Jon wasn’t unfamiliar with turning a few heads. Back when he was living on the street, people used to stare all the time. But it feels worse, somehow, here, in this temple to the ever-burning sight. The weight of too many eyes, all feeding something _bigger_. The lot of them were clearly Unblinking, following their path to this shrine of books and research. Why else would they work here? 

Jon stops walking when he finds himself in the Institute’s vast lobby, the tall roof stretching over him, the scattered chairs occupied by a few people waiting. The gazes of the visitors linger on Jon for a second before they drop away. 

The front of the lobby is dominated by two gigantic picture windows stretching up towards the ceiling. The brilliant blue of the sky outside taunts him and he finds his feet tracing their path toward the double doors of the Magnus Institute. A new energy infuses him, and he grins with a manic energy at the idea of stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. 

Jon hesitates for a moment, a few steps away from the door. He can hear footsteps echoing across the lobby, and he fears for a moment they might belong to Elias. He turns quickly and scans the crowd nervously, but sees nothing. Shaking the anxiety out of his head, Jon turns back and pulls one door open. 

The scent of the breeze and the warmth of the sun hits him. It's lovely and soft. It smells like the city, yes, but beneath it is the familiar scent of nearby water. Even the rancid, polluted smell of the urban river water makes Jon _ache_ for a moment. 

Jon takes a deep breath and tries to step out the door, but his foot freezes in a familiar net of compulsion. It hits him, and then the anger hits him, roiling in his gut. _Another wall_. He's still trapped. Even out of the house he’s _trapped_. All he’s done is traded one cage for another. He had thought, _had hoped_, that his recent behaviour had proven something to Elias.

Apparently _not_.

A staff member passes him through the other door, returning from somewhere further away, and Jon cannot help but hate her, in that moment. This human, allowed freedom, no skin, no fail safes keeping her bound to one person, like a leash that cannot be shaken off. She can leave while he is simply _stuck here_.

"Hey, you alright?" 

Jon can feel a hand hovering nearby, reaching out to offer help. He flinches away, shaking, and he turns to the man who spoke, teeth already ready with a snap and a sharp, "_I'm fine._" 

It comes out _too_ sharp, all well honed hunger and spite. Jon recognises the man after a second. He’d seen him around a bit in his time at the Institute, around the same area Martin was working. He’d never been introduced to Jon, but he clearly recognises him too, a realization dawning in his eyes. The man lowers his hand further, palm outstretched and body a little hunched. Jon's haunches relax unconsciously. He can hear Elias' strict instruction to _be polite_ ringing in his head.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle, you just looked tense. I'm Tim. I've seen you around the library. You're the boss’ new husband, Jon, right?"

Jon recognises that tone, placating, patronizing, like Tim is talking to a wild animal. Jon hates it, but grits his teeth and forces out, "yes, I am."

"Alright," Tim stands up taller, though he’s still slouching a little, "well, Jon, you don’t seem to be in the best of moods."

"Obviously," Jon sniffs, eyes darting to the outside again and then back to Tim.

Tim takes a moment to gather his thoughts, letting his eyes skate around Jon’s face. Whatever he finds there leaves him grinning like an idiot. "Well, a friendly conversation and a lunchtime walk usually helps me. So, if you're up for it, maybe we could take a walk to a nearby place for some takeaway? I've had a bit of a rough morning myself."

Jon narrows his eyes, looking Tim up and down.

"We're not _friends_," he says, unable to keep the edge of scorn and distrust out of his voice.

"I said _friendly_, not friends. Sometimes that's all that's needed." 

Tim sounds a little hurt, and Jon is honestly surprised he's pressing on with the conversation at all. Most people would have given up by now. Jon looks again at the crisp afternoon, so close by and yet impossibly far away. The spark of anger in his tone is buried under bitter resignation. “I don’t think my husband would like me to wander away from the Institute.” 

There are a dozen reasons why Jon turns away from the doors, and he can’t tell Tim any of them. They pile messily on top of one another and fill his stomach with nervous energy. But the world is nothing but dangerous for selkies. The less people who know, the better. He's trying to be _human_, after all.

"I'm afraid I _can't_," he says, instead, putting on Elias' posh tone and turning on his heels to walk away. He knows it's _rude_, that Elias might not approve. But deep down he also knows this is _exactly_ what Elias wants. It hurts to pull himself away from those doors, and he feels Tim’s eyes heavy on him until he rounds the corner and presses himself up against the wall.

***

Each day of his first week at the Institute, when Jon gets hungry around midday, he wanders back to Elias’ office and eats whatever he brought from home for them, but today he finds himself engrossed in his book on local lycanthrope lore far beyond the point of noticing his hunger. By the time he stands and stretches out his aching back, he’s sure he’s quite missed Elias’ stated lunchtime. Jon shifts from one foot nervously to the other.

Elias hadn’t come looking for him, so either he doesn’t mind or he couldn’t find him. Or he is still waiting for Jon to return, silently measuring out how severe Jon’s punishment will be in relation to how late he shows up. Jon patters his fingers nervously up and down the side of his arm. He’d never really been _punished_ for skipping a meal at home, perhaps it was just that Elias genuinely didn’t mind him not returning. And things had been so good between them recently, gentle, almost caring. Maybe Elias didn’t mind.

Jon walks out of the library, his head stormy with conflicting possibilities. He stands in the doorway, looking down the hall towards Elias’ office, imposing and inevitable. What if Elias took away his Institute privileges? _Worse_, what if he made him stay home alone?

Jon’s stomach curls in on itself in panic and he turns on his heel and rushes in the opposite direction. 

It’s pointless, he _knows_ it’s pointless, avoiding Elias like this. He can’t exactly escape him, can’t even leave the Institute, but he just can’t stand to face him right now. The potential weight of Elias’ cold disapproval rests like a stone in the bottom of Jon’s throat and he struggles to breathe around it. He turns corners without looking, just trying to head further away, as if he can outpace his anticipation of punishment.

By the time he looks up, he finds himself in a mostly unfamiliar room. He’d peeked his head in once or twice but it was always full of people and so he’d avoided going inside. Now, however, the room is almost entirely cleared out, with just a few stragglers sitting around tables eating food off of trays. _Food_. Jon’s gut complains with perfect timing. He hadn’t known where he was going, but his stomach must have led him here, following the smell of food after reading all the way through lunch. Jon makes his way carefully across the room, swinging wide away from the humans present, and approaches the display of food. 

There’s a wide selection, laid out in shiny metal basins, some of which Jon recognizes from his meals with Elias but most of which he doesn’t. He dips his head below the plastic overhang and sniffs curiously at the array of sandwiches. 

They all seem to be roughly the same, so Jon reaches out and grabs the nearest one. He hesitates for a moment, remembering the table manners Elias had drilled so seriously into him, but there doesn’t seem to be a place setting on any of the tables, so he figures it’s alright to eat the sandwich normally. He bites in, enjoying the sharp crunch between his teeth.

“Hey!” Jon turns, his cheeks still full of sandwich, and sees a red-faced man stand from his stool and wave a hand angrily in Jon’s direction. “Don’t eat before you pay!”

Jon blinks, bemused and not really following the conversation. He nods to the man and turns to leave.

“No, no, hold on,” the man slides his way out from behind his little station and walks fast enough to cut Jon off before he can get too far away. He reaches out to try and grab Jon’s arm, but Jon flinches away. “I _said_, you have to pay for that.”

Jon swallows and swipes his tongue over his teeth to clean them. “I don’t understand.”

“This stuff isn’t free, sir, it costs money. Didn’t you read the sign?”

Jon had not read the sign. And also he is decently sure he doesn’t have any of the money the man is talking about. Jon extends the sandwich to the man. If it belongs to him, he can have it back.

“I don’t—” the man shakes his head. “Where’s your employee ID card? You can put it on your account.”

“I don’t work here,” Jon says, and takes a step back as the man’s face grows somehow redder. He feels his fingers start to twitch with adrenaline as he prepares to run.

“Here, here’s my card.” Jon whips his head around to see that man from his first day, that _Martin_, walking up with a small plastic card outstretched. “You can put it on mine.”

The man accepts this with a grumble and heads back to his podium. Jon watches Martin with wide eyes as he heads over to the selection of foods and pulls out something else before saying something inaudible to the man. By the end of it, they’re both laughing as if nothing had happened and Martin is strolling back to where Jon stands stupidly with his sandwich still in his hand.

“Did you, ah, not get lunch with your husband today?” Martin asks, in that way of his that makes it sound less like a question and more like a request. Not expecting to be answered, just hoping to be acknowledged. He stands a full head taller than Elias, but when he hovers nervously over Jon it feels like he’s folded in half.

“I was busy,” Jon answers, still staring wide eyed up at Martin until he looks away, seemingly embarrassed.

“Oh, well, I mean, I actually worked through the normal lunch break too, so if you wanted we could eat...together?” Martin pulls at the bottom of his shirtsleeve. He must do it a lot, Jon can see the hanging threads of hours of nervous fiddling. His sandwich is getting cold.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” Jon says all in a rush, “I didn’t know.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure guests are allowed to eat in the canteen. You’re not going to get kicked out or anything.”

“I read through lunch and I didn’t notice the time and it won’t happen again.” Jon tucks his chin into his chest. He can feel Martin’s confusion rolling off him like fog. 

“It’s...it’s alright, Jon.” Martin’s voice is soft enough to choke on and Jon takes a quick step back. “No one’s angry.”

“I have to go.” Jon pulls his sandwich to his chest and turns on his heel. Behind him, he can almost feel Martin’s eyes like a second, cold, disappointed weight settling just beside the first.

***

Over the weeks he spends at the Institute, Jon finds himself perpetually drawn back towards the forbidden Archives. Elias hadn’t told him _explicitly_ not to go there, in fact he hadn’t made anywhere in the building off-limits, a loophole Jon took full advantage of, but Martin had been very clear about it being frowned upon and Rosie echoed the sentiment. Gertrude didn’t like people wandering into her Archives. And there were dangerous things down there, especially to someone like Jon who didn’t know the _proper procedures_.

He wasn’t quite as innocent as Rosie thought he was, though, and he was certainly far from _inexperienced_. There was only so many days he could spend familiarizing himself with the twists and turns of the Institute before he ran out of nooks and crannies to explore.

He’d spent the day so far in careful surveillance, waiting in a hidden corner for Gertrude to emerge from the Archives for her lunch break, and then giving it a long couple of minutes before darting to the trapdoor and easing it open. The steps leading down are poorly lit and creak beneath his weight. It smells different than the library does, mustier, dead air with nowhere to escape to. The temperature drops noticeably and Jon barely suppresses a shiver. He does nothing _but_ shiver these days. But he can’t let the cold stop him.

The first room is rather disappointing. A common area with three desk sets very similar to the one Martin has upstairs. All three are swept entirely empty except for a thin film of dust, as if they’ve sat unoccupied for years. A golden nameplate on a door to his right denotes it as Gertrude Robinson’s office, and Jon tries wiggling the door handle, but it’s locked. Odd choice, to lock her office when she’s just stepping out for lunch. Jon runs his tongue over the bottom of his teeth, and then shakes his head and moves on. There will be plenty of time in the future.

There aren’t any books down here, but Jon sifts curiously through a large stacks of cardboard boxes, each packed with tan file folders and scattered papers. He pulls one out of the stack and lets his eyes drift over the scrawled handwriting. It’s a captivating story, and he finds himself wasting time he doesn’t have reading through the entire thing. By the time he reaches the end, he realizes he’d been whispering the words aloud to himself, and he jams the paper back into its box with a little more force than necessary.

He knows a thing or two about being enthralled. It _won’t_ happen again.

Jon pulls himself back to standing (when had he sat?) and heads to the next door near the back of the room. Pulling it open, he sees more stacks of those cardboard boxes, alternated with metal filing cabinets, and a small, unadorned cot. The room smells like it hasn’t been used in years, and Jon wonders what Gertrude even needs with all this space if she’s all by herself down here. Maybe these files were just left here to molder and rot, and Gertrude along with them. 

Jon eases the door closed again, not wanting to disturb the eerie silence of the place. The back of the room is mostly full of bookshelves, lined again with file after file, some full of thick sheafs of paper and some so thin they might be empty. A few bulge in odd ways around chunky black tapes that have been shoved in amongst the papers. Jon knows Elias owns a tape player, but he doesn’t see one around here, and he doesn’t have time to listen to a pile of random tapes when Gertrude might be coming back any second. He doesn’t even know if they’d be helpful. Helpful to _what_, he isn’t sure. He has no idea what he’s looking for. Just that he’s _looking_, and that everything here wants to be _looked at_.

It takes more effort than it should to turn away.

Behind the shelves, he finds another door that leads out into a claustrophobic hallway. The floor is grimy white tile and the only light comes from a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. One way down the hall he sees a wooden door with a dark lacquered sheen labelled _Artifact Storage_. The other way down he sees another trapdoor. This one is cold metal, imposing, and covered in rust. 

Jon takes a step in one direction, and then in another. They both feel like equally bad ideas, and he wants very badly to see both of them. He tastes iron in his mouth from the frantic beating of his heart as he slowly takes another step towards Artifact Storage. 

“That’s a dangerous place for you.” Jon stiffens and turns slowly to see Gertrude Robinson walking up behind him. She seems deeply unconcerned about finding him where he shouldn’t be, but there’s a hardness behind her eyes that leaves Jon sure it isn’t because she’s friendly. 

“So everyone tells me.” He curls his shoulders in a bit, defensively, glancing to the side to plan an escape route. Gertrude’s stare is even worse than Elias’. Like he’s cornered in an open room.

“So, do you not _trust_ them, or do you just not care?”

“I don’t trust _anyone_,” Jon snaps. Gertrude’s nostrils flare as she lets out a breath that could be a laugh if she wasn’t carved entirely out of marble.

“Smart. I can see why Elias likes you.”

Jon scowls. “He likes people who don’t trust him?” 

“He certainly seems to surround himself with them.” Gertrude takes a step forward, and Jon skitters nervously backwards until his back hits the wall. She folds her arms primly. 

Jon bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth and ducks his head sharply. “He doesn’t like to let go of his things.”

“I don’t intend to give him the choice.”

“If you can’t help me, get out of my way,” Jon hisses, staring at the tiled floor.

“I’m helping you right now, idiot boy.” Jon glances up at Gertrude and her expression is cold and uncaring as ever. “Don’t go into Artifact Storage.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again. There is tension in the lines of Gertrude’s body, like she’s prepared to spring at any moment. He casts a glance at the door, his fingers twitching at his sides. “What’s in there?”

Gertrude flicks her eyes up and down Jon’s coiled posture. “Not the salvation you’re hoping for.” 

“_Fine,_” Jon snaps his teeth closed around the word and storms past Gertrude, out of the hallway and back into the archives. The pervasive chill of the basement seems to sink suddenly through his clothes and Jon wraps his arms tight around his stomach to try and hold onto his fading warmth. He squeezes his eyes shut and futilely tries to summon up some kind of magical sense for where his skin is, but as always he hits a blank, empty wall. 

“Jonathan,” Gertrude calls, and he half turns around to face her, barely able to restrain himself now from shivering. He thinks desperately of Elias’ warm office and warmer arms. “What did you say your last name was?”

“Bouchard,” Jon spits, and turns to head back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday!! Look at this chapter, barely any Elias in it at all! Our baby bird is really spreading his wings all over the Institute. Don't worry, if you missed him, there will be plenty more of the bastard man next week. For now, Jon makes some new......"friends"?? Let's go with it.
> 
> Sooner or later he's gonna have to stop running away from conversations. But we'll get there. See you all next Tuesday!!!


	20. Gilded Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias makes Jon an offer. Jon finds his way home.

Elias' smile is wide as he bustles around their kitchen. Jon sits perched on a chair at the island, watching the way Elias carefully tends to each part of their meal. Several pots are bubbling, cooking pasta and boiling down vegetables, and two kinds of meats are separated out into their own individual pans. Elias dips his pinkie in the sauce, popping it in his mouth before he sprinkles in spices. It’s a complicated kind of magic Jon can’t quite follow, but Elias looks calm and practiced, his crisp sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

Apparently he's made a wine sauce for both, using different wines. Jon has a glass of one of them, a pinot noir, in front of him, about half empty. He’s had enough to come to the conclusion that it's a bit bitter for his tastes, but Elias gave him a look when he made a face at the taste, so he’s trying not to complain. Elias has his own glass of white wine sitting on the counter near his elbow as he cooks.

Elias is in a particularly cheerful mood. He hasn't said why yet, nor has Jon asked. Instead, Jon just leans on one elbow and watches, tracking Elias’ movement with his eyes. Work had seemed normal enough today, with Jon spending his day in the library. He'd only seen Elias at the beginning and the end of the day, and had spent the rest so neck deep in a book that he’d forgotten to eat until it was nearly time to head home.

He feels warm and fuzzy now, wine-drunk and soft. The drink makes his tongue feel thick in his mouth.

"You're so cheerful Elias. Did something peculiar happen?"

Elias looks over his shoulder at Jon and the selkie can see the subtle twinkle in his eyes. This Elias is rather charming, even more than usual. Jon ducks his head, blushing and grabs for his glass of wine, taking another generous sip. Elias chuckles, like he knows what Jon is thinking.

Elias distracts Jon from his thoughts, setting a plate in front of him with a little flourish, and tops up the wine Jon still isn't so sure he wants. He fills up his own glass as well, and settles down to eat across from Jon.

The food smells wonderful, even the carrots. Jon still has a little distaste for them, but combined with the rest, they don't bother him as much. He’s eaten them enough to get used to the taste. When he cuts into the meat it's perfectly cooked and slices easily. It practically melts on his tongue, tender and juicy, with just enough flavour to enhance, but not overpower, the too familiar taste of human meat.

Jon looks up at Elias, eyes wide. The question hangs unasked in the air between them.

“It’s a celebration,” Elias says, spreading his hand out to encompass the meal. “Consider it a congratulations present.”

“Did...did I do something?” Jon looks down at his plate and his mind spins, trying to figure out what had changed.

“Impressed me, that’s all. How would you like to come work for me?”

Jon stares. Jobs are things that humans do, and while Elias might be training him into being a _proper person_, Jon is still surprised that Elias would let him so far off his leash. 

"I-I'm not entirely _sure_, actually," Jon answers, considering. It would mean dealing with more people, but it would also mean more of a chance for a life outside of Elias. A chance for _more_. “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do, Jon. You always have a choice. You ought to eat your food, now. After all, we’ll need to keep a closer eye on how human you look from now on.” 

Jon tears his eyes away from Elias and looks down at the meat on his plate. It smells wonderful enough to leave his mouth watering, so he does as Elias asks and digs in eagerly, while still trying to eat as politely as possible. It's a hard balance to strike, but Jon thinks he's getting better at it. His hands don't fumble or clink the utensils on the china like they used to. Elias seems to notice and smiles with approval.

"I'm glad you like it Jon." Elias waits for him to finish the bite and then continues. "I was hoping you would come to work with me, alongside me. You've seemed to greatly enjoy your time in the library, amongst all the books, and the Archives are very similar in many ways. I want you to be my Archivist."

"You want me to _what?_" Jon is taken aback, unsure how to respond properly. "Don’t you already have one? Gertrude? What happened to her? She was—" Jon shudders a little, thinking about her eyes, the way they rested on his face like she _knew_ who he was better than even he did. 

"Unfortunately, in her time as Archivist, Gertrude made a lot of enemies. One of them caught up with her and dealt with her in a rather terrible manner." Elias frowns a little, and reaches across the table to slide his finger through a bit of the sauce on Jon’s plate and pop it into his mouth. It's a casual move, as though he isn't talking about his employee’s tragic death. 

"It left us short staffed, and since the Archives are rather _vital_, we needed someone perfect on very short notice. Luckily, Jon, you just so happen to be excellently suited, knowing what you do about the Powers."

Jon isn't so sure how to feel, the memory of the chilly basement settling heavy in him. The papers that begged for his attention. The heavy, too knowing gaze of the former Archivist. He wonders if that would be _him_ someday, so cold, sharp like a flash of teeth peeking out from dark waters. 

Then he thinks of the aching need he’d felt, all the _knowledge_ that had called him. Those hallways and the secrets that lay behind them. He had never had the chance to see what waited beyond those doors. He _wants_ to see. Wants that bit of extra freedom having the job will allow. Wants something, some _place_, that could almost be his. Could _almost_ be free from Elias.

"You almost completely pass as human now. I'm rather impressed," Elias is saying, tapping once at the plate in front of Jon. "But I still don't want others to find out, for your sake. I want you _safe_."

"Yes. I-I'd rather not be found out," Jon says, and it's true. He can't _stand_ the thought of anyone else knowing what he is. He doesn't want to be hurt more, or stolen, or driven out without ever finding his pelt. He might not have it now, he might be caged and and stuck here, but at least he knows _Elias_ has it. That he’s keeping it safe somewhere. The thought of even _one_ more person touching his skin makes him break into shivers.

"We'll keep working on it, and soon, no one will be able to sense your monstrous nature," Elias promises him, looking straight into Jon's eyes.

A little part of Jon wants to snap his teeth, because he _liked_ how he was before Elias. He was less human, more monster, with his freedom and his pelt. Nothing else had been necessary. He doesn't say anything though, just ducks his head and eats the rest of his food. The taste of human between his teeth is enough of a reminder of what he is. He can be satisfied with this. 

***

After their meal, Elias brings Jon up to the library and settles him on the love seat. Jon isn’t sure whether to blame the butterflies in his stomach on nerves or excitement. He watches as Elias pulls some papers with beautiful gilded edges out and takes a moment to glance over them. He is brimming with excitement, Jon can tell, his steps practically bouncing as he walks over to Jon. Their fingers brush as he hands off the papers and Jon's own pulse spikes. 

"I got these made up special. I wanted them to be the very best, only fitting for someone so perfect as you."

"Thank you," Jon says, softly, the words coming easy and practiced. He reads the papers over, careful not to bend or crinkle them too much. The past weeks reading over Elias' shoulder makes some of what's written make sense to him. 

They cover his position, benefits, all sorts of things like that. Most important of all, it mentions his wage. Money that will belong to _him_, so he can spend it as he pleases.

"It mentions my job here, and some of what is expected of me, but there's no mention of the _Ways_."

Elias nods and sits down next to Jon, their thighs pressed tight together. "The powers aren't exactly common knowledge for humans, not the way they are amongst your kind. Most Archivists learn about them eventually, over the course of their work. _You_ are merely a step ahead."

He seems so pleased, settling a hand on Jon's knee. "Now, what I expect of you is to tidy up and organize the Archives, when it comes right down to it. Gertrude, in all her travels and foolishness, left it an utter _mess_. Fortunately, you'll have three assistants to help you in whatever way you need."

"I have to work with _humans_?" Jon bites his lip, worry spreading through his stomach. He's met a few he likes, but the possibility of them so close, having possible access to knowledge that could point to _exactly_ what he is makes him squirm. 

"Yes." Elias’ voice makes it clear he will accept no further complaints, but then he continues in a placating tone. "If you’re worried, Jon, just keep a professional distance. You’re their _boss_, not their confidant, they do not need to know everything about you. I've already chosen them, and I've made sure each of them will be useful and trustworthy."

Jon tries to drop his tense posture and only partially succeeds.

"I'll try my best, Elias," Jon promises, more to himself than his husband. Elias kisses his head, and pulls over a sliding table that he occasionally uses to do his work. He gently pulls the papers out of Jon's hands and produces a pen with a flourish. 

"Is there anything else you want to clarify, or do you feel ready to sign your employment papers?"

Jon hesitates, flipping through them and taking a last look. He doesn't have any more questions, not now, so he just nods.

The pen has a surprising weight to it when he takes it and signs the contract. A similar weight settles over his shoulders. A shiver goes up his spine and settles like butterfly wings beating at the inside of his ribs. This job is _his_. The Archives, all the knowledge in them, those are his. A deeper sort of greed settles into his chest, and he smiles at Elias with a bright, manic energy. The kiss Elias presses to his hand feels like a blessing.

***

Jon stares at his nervous reflection, alternating between holding up a dark red shirt with black buttons and an overly stiff collar, and a dark blue one that reminds him of his wedding day. He looks back at the waistcoat Elias has chosen for him, a gray so dark it's almost black. 

He feels dizzy with anticipation and nerves, and his indecision is paralyzing. Off to the side he has set the soft red jumper he wore on his first day at the Institute. He thinks of the chill of the Archives, the dark hallways and echoing space, and opts instead for the jumper. The button up can wait a few days, at least until Jon feels more settled. 

It slips on easily enough, over his freshly brushed hair. A few stray flyaways pop up and Jon tries to pat them back down with his fingers. He slips the accompanying waistcoat over it and adjusts it to Elias' exacting standards. Neat. Tidy. A perfect fit. Another layer between Jon and the world. He picks futilely at some of the little bits of fuzz that stick to the vest.

He looks human, probably as much as he's ever going to, trousers neatly pressed and loafers shiny and dark. Jon wants to at least _look_ professional, even if he doesn't feel it. He can't help but wonder how humans do this, day in, day out. Dress up to their societies' exacting standards, go out and play pretend, like they aren't hiding so many secrets under their skin and behind their teeth. Like they aren't hiding _monsters_, just like Elias is.

Jon wants this job, he truly does. He wants the little bit of extra freedom it will bring and the knowledge that is hoarded on those shelves. He's not looking forward to the responsibility of sorting them and properly classifying them, but if that's the cost then he's more than willing to pay. The Archives had been calling him for weeks, even when Gertrude had stood in his way with her too-knowing eyes.

Elias comes into the room, and Jon jumps, too deep inside his own head to hear the soft footsteps padding across the floor. Jon looks back into the mirror, and Elias meets his eyes through the glass. His smile is fond, and he presses a kiss to Jon's cheek. He eyes his husband up and down, assessing, tugging at a bit of fabric here and there until he finds everything perfectly satisfactory. 

"Jon, are you ready?" He asks, and drapes himself over Jon's back in a loose morning hug. 

"I'm, well, I'm nervous, but as ready as I'm ever going to be."

Jon already wants to crawl out of his skin at the prospect of having to work side by side with strange humans. He'll make due though, he tells himself, a mantra all its own. He'll keep them at arm's length, use their skills, and prove to Elias that he's trustworthy enough to have his skin back. He repeats Elias’ promise from their wedding night over and over in his head. He’ll give the skin back when Jon is ready. _He’ll give the skin back when Jon is ready._ Taking this position, being offered this position, that has to be the first step towards that, _right_? 

He ignores the voice scratching at the back of his head telling him it’s _impossible_. He has to believe in it, or he has nothing left. 

Elias' eyes have the same pressure as tons of ocean water, pressing insistently down on Jon even when he hums, happy and pleased. He intertwines their hands and leads Jon out of their bedroom and down to the kitchen. 

"You need to stop worrying, Jon. You'll do wonderfully. Your assistants will be there to help you with anything you need, I assure you." 

At least Elias sounds confident, and Jon tries to find some strength in that knowledge. It's not as comforting as Elias seems to think it is.

"Now eat, Jon, and we'll head to work. No need to be late on the first day."

He sits beside Jon, bumping knees as they eat the simple eggs and toast that Elias prepared. Jon can hardly finish it, leaving far more than Elias usually likes him to. His husband’s little frown forces Jon into eating another two bites before he pushes it away, his stomach churning. 

Shockingly, Elias accepts it without further comment. Clean up doesn't take long, and soon they're out into the open air. Jon has just enough time for one deep breath of air before the car door shuts behind him. 

The Institute draws closer and closer, and Jon can practically feel the pull of all that new information just waiting to be dug through and absorbed. It's like a siren's song, louder than even the worst of his nerves. He feels better by the time they reach the front doors of the Magnus Institute. He truly feels like he belongs here now, not just as some sort of dragged along pet husband. 

When they enter the Archives, Elias is speaking but Jon is only half listening. He's too busy taking in the smells, the sights, the sounds. Something settles comfortably in him, as if he belongs here, as if this place is claiming him as much as he is claiming it. It makes his pulse spike.

"These are _yours_ now, Jon, to care for and organise," Elias says, a few steps in front of him, one arm dramatically outstretched.

Jon closes his eyes and lets the feeling of the Archives wash over him like waves. He feels safe and submerged, like the part of him that was ripped away is being filled up with something new and intoxicating. The Archives feel like _home_, and Jon isn't sure he ever wants to leave them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hanukkah!!! And merry christmas I think?? I think this is going up on Christmas Eve but I'm way too Jewish to bother with any of that stuff. I guess this is a day early to be a christmas present for all our christian buddies out there, but consider it a very merry night three gift from us to you. I know that I always accept presents in the form of FRESH SELKIE CONTENT. HOT OFF THE SELKIE PRESSES. 
> 
> (oh and comments. That would be a lovely present. Every comment from you guys is a frickin GIFT and we love you.)
> 
> So! Looks like twenty chapters in we've _finally_ reached the point of episode one. How will things proceed next to canon with a Jon who knows all about the monsters in the world? Tune in next week to find out!!


	21. Alternate Qualifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin descends into the depths.

“Are you sure this is right?”

“For the last time, Martin, your name was on the memo. Elias emailed it  _ directly _ to you. I’m pretty sure he picked you for the transfer.” Tim kicks his legs against the side of Martin’s desk. Or, rather, what  _ used _ to be Martin’s desk. What had been Martin’s desk for the past  _ six years _ ever since he’d been transferred into Research. And now he's being transferred out.

It isn’t  _ fair. _ He’d liked Research. He was comfortable in Research. He’d gotten the routine down. Now he’ll have to start making it up from  _ scratch _ all over again. Pretend he knows the first thing about archiving.

“It just doesn’t make much sense is all,” Martin grumbles, trying not to let it sound too much like a whine. He isn’t a  _ child. _ He picks up his sharpener shaped like a frog and tosses it into the cardboard box.

“You’ve been working here longer than almost anybody. You have the seniority.” Tim, who is not being very helpful sitting on Martin’s desk and playing with his office supplies, lifts a potted spider plant and deposits it carefully into the box. Martin busies himself tucking all of its long curling leaves carefully inside so that it doesn’t catch and tear when he’s carrying his stuff down to the archives.

“Experience in research doesn’t mean experience in archiving. I don’t know how to…” Martin fumbles with his hands for a moment, “do archiving stuff? See? I don’t even know the  _ words!" _

“Well.” Tim spins a rubber band absentmindedly around his finger. His words drip with so much sarcasm Martin could drown on it. “Clearly  _ credentials _ weren’t exactly on Elias’ mind.”

Martin’s back goes rigid and his voice cracks. “How d’you mean?”

“I _mean_ we’re being put under a guy who doesn’t even work here. I don’t think he has any relevant experience _at all.”_

“Who, Jon?” Martin looks down at the box he’s filling, trying to focus on anything other than his new supervisor. “He’s been coming to the Institute for weeks now.”

“To sit on the floor and read!” Tim twists the rubber band back over his thumb and fires it at the opposing wall. 

“He’s clearly intelligent, and there are alternate qualifications than  _ just _ work experience.”

“I don’t think  _ being able to read _ should be the only benchmark before getting assigned as  _ Head Archivist, _ Martin!”

“Can you keep your voice down?” Martin hisses from between his teeth. “We’re still in a library for chrissake. And Jon might be here.”

Tim rolls his eyes so hard his whole head tips backwards. “Oh, the illustrious Mr. and Mr. Bouchard are already down in the Archives. I saw them pass that way half an hour ago. And that place is soundproofed to all hell. I heard it’s,” Tim makes gratuitous air quotes, “ _ for the safety of the records.  _ What kind of records get hurt by sound anyway?”

“I don’t—”

“Oh  _ shit." _ Tim snaps his head forward and grabs Martin by the shoulder. Martin nearly drops the pencup he’s holding out of panic. “It’s soundproofed all to hell. You don’t think…”

Martin does not want to  _ think. _ Not about  _ that. _ Not on his first day in his new position when he’s already spent way too much time thinking about the strangely beautiful man who’s been drifting through the Institute distracting him for weeks. The soft-spoken, dark-eyed man who was the absolute worst possible target for Martin’s attention. The worst mistake he could possibly make dangling right in front of him where it was  _ impossible _ to ignore.

_ "Tim." _

“I’m just saying. First day on the job. Might need to be proving some of those  _ alternate qualifications  _ of his.”

Martin buries his face in his hands and groans. “Why do you have to make everything sound so  _ illicit?" _

“Well it is illicit, isn’t it? Our brand new supervisor is screwing the boss.”

“I-it’s, no, it’s not, they’re  _ married _ , Tim, it’s not the...not the same, it’s not an, it’s not some kind of, some kind of  _ affair. _ You can’t be…” Martin chokes on the word  _ screwing. _ It’s a bridge too far. It’s 9:30 am and he’s at his desk and he  _ cannot _ be having this conversation right now. He just  _ can’t. _ His face is on fire. “It doesn’t  _ work _ like that.”

“It appears to  _ exclusively _ work like that.” Tim tips his head back and ponders the ceiling. “Maybe I should have taken the easy way out and seduced some rich old asshole and landed a high paying gig somewhere better than here.”

“It’s  _ called _ nepotism.” Martin looks over and sees Sasha leaning against the doorframe of the entrance to the library. She has her own cardboard box of belongings balanced carefully on her hip. She sets it down on the ground and leans over, coming back up with the purple rubber band Tim had launched across the room dangling from one of her fingers. “I mean, I assume you guys are talking about the new man in charge.”

“Jonathan Bouchard,” Tim says, presenting the name with a dramatic hand gesture. “The man so good at archiving he conducted his own background check. I’m glad you’re going to be down there with us, Sasha. I could use someone sane.”

“And for that I’m leaving you off the lunch run.” Martin smacks Tim on the arm and pops a lid on his box of belongings.

“Speaking of background checks, actually.” Sasha steps in closer and lowers her voice dramatically. Martin is pretty sure it’s mostly for effect, but he leans forward in spite of himself. “Did you guys hear how he came to the Institute once before? Like, half a year ago or so. Showed up out of  _ nowhere, _ no one knew who he was, and he looked like a  _ disaster. _ Ripped clothes, dirt all over him. Now you know we get some weirdos in here, and some folks who look straight out of hell, but this guy asked for Elias and got buzzed straight through. No statement, no  _ nothing. _ And no one had seen him before.”

Sasha looks from Tim to Martin, letting the silence drag out as if she’s telling a campfire spook story and Martin can’t help the way his heartbeat picks up, just a little. “And  _ then,  _ a few days later, the story circulates that he’s Elias’  _ fiancee _ who was in an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Tim asks.

Sasha wiggles her fingers mysteriously.  _ “Unspecified.” _

“Was he hurt?” Martin asks, trying to picture the Jon he knows with his perfectly pressed jumpers and his neatly combed hair in any kind of disarray. Would he look younger, his eyes so wide and dark shining out from his terrified face? Martin is hit with a sudden pointless wave of  _ protectiveness _ for the image he’d made up in his head. 

“Nope. Well, not that anyone saw.  _ But here’s the thing. _ Apparently, even though he was perfectly dry, every single person who was there that day swears up and down that he smelled of  _ saltwater." _

In the silence that falls between them, Martin can hear the radiator rattle to life. Tim twists his head as if waiting for the next sentence but Sasha merely holds up her hands and drops them as if she’s just drawn the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“So?” Tim snaps, finally.

“So  _ I _ bet he was attacked by something. Some sort of _ ocean monster. _ We have some cases of that kind of thing on file. People being dragged underwater and such by all kinds of creatures.”

“Maybe it was just a boating accident,” Martin suggests half-heartedly, but Sasha blazes right past him.

“If  _ I _ was a monster,” she splays a hand on her chest. “I’d go after the Institute.  _ Elias. _ We’re like, their natural rivals right?”

Tim laughs and the strange tension that had been building between them snaps like fishing line. “We’re not the  _ ghostbusters, _ Sasha. I doubt the monsters out there are very intimidated by our bureaucracy and pencil pushing.”

“I’m just  _ saying _ it’s weird.” Sasha leans back away and turns around to grab her box of belongings. “You guys all set to head down into the depths?”

Tim turns dramatically towards the windows and drapes a hand across his forehead. “Goodbye forever, sun.” 

Martin pats his desk and whispers a quiet thank you to it for seeing him through so many years. It’s silly, being sentimental over a place which technically he isn’t even leaving. He’s just going  _ downstairs. _ It’ll all be the same. Same coworkers, same cafeteria, same routine.

Except that one, new coworker, of course. 

“Ocean monster, huh,” Martin whispers to himself, and tries his best  _ not _ to picture the way Jon had stiffened at his touch. As if he’d been  _ terrified. _ As if  _ something _ had hurt him.

***

Martin had never actually been down to the archives before. Hadn’t had reason to and hadn’t really wanted to either. They’re a bit spooky, the whole trapdoor entrance thing is rather over dramatic, and now that he’s down here he can see that the whole place is entirely devoid of windows. Shadows pool in the corners like they’ve forgotten how to leave. When Martin plops his box down on his desk, a puff of dust nearly sets him choking.

He pulls the top off his box and grabs out a scuffed notebook and a pencil. He flips quickly through the pages of scribbled text until he finds a blank one and then balances it carefully on one palm.

_ The shadows pooled in the corners like they’d forgotten how to leave,  _ he writes in one line of fluid, messy cursive along the top. He hesitates for a moment, his pencil skipping down a line without his consent, and he adds,  _ He smelled of saltwater. _

“They could have cleaned it out a bit,” Tim says and Martin slams his notebook closed and tosses it hurriedly back into his box. 

“Do we even get cell reception down here?” Sasha taps at one of the wall-mounted lights, frowning at the way it flickers from dim to dimmer.

Martin stares at the closed wooden door directly across from his desk. His chair faces it. He’ll be forced to spend his days staring at the little, polished gold plaque that proclaims  _ Jonathan Bouchard, Head Archivist. _

He’s caught in the middle of trying to think how quickly Elias would have had to get that engraved when the door to Jon’s office swings open and there he is. The man himself. In that same jumper he’d been wearing the first day Martin had met him, but this time tucked under an expensive looking waistcoat. Standing with his back straight, framed in the doorway to his office, Jon looks further away than ever before.

“Good morning.” Jon ducks his head, and then lifts it again, and then looks to the side, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Martin feels a beat of sympathy. He knows what it’s like to feel out of your depth at a new job. Jon might never have been in a management position before. He has a kind of  _ shut-in academic _ vibe around him, like he’s used to spending a lot of time alone.

“Come out to greet the new recruits?” Tim asks and Martin tries his best to elbow him discreetly. There’s really no need to be  _ openly _ confrontational on the first day.

“Here to give assignments.” Jon’s tone is brusque and professional. He doesn’t meet any of their eyes.

“We haven’t unpacked yet, can we get a chance to settle in?” Jon looks over at Sasha as if he hadn’t realized he was talking to people. He shifts on his feet and Martin wonders if this interruption wasn’t on the mental script Jon had rehearsed.

“Well, here’s what you’ll have to do once you’re...settled.” Jon pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it carefully, his long fingers smoothing out the creases. Martin catches a glimpse of the crisp, tight handwriting and he recognizes it from memos and forms he’s seen on Elias’ desk. “Sasha, you’ll get the network set up first and then please start separating out files that have attached research from the ones that do not. Tim, you’ll start by looking into case 0030402 which I recorded this morning before you all arrived. Martin,” Jon looks up from his list and crumples it in one hand, “could you come see me in my office?”

Martin hopes his apprehensive gulp isn’t quite as audible to everyone else as it is to him. Jon turns dismissively and heads back into his office and Martin shoots Tim a panicked glance that is only rewarded with a clueless shrug and a less-than-helpful suggestive eyebrow wiggle. As if Martin needed to be thinking about Jon and Elias and their relationship  _ right now. _ He does his best to glare at Tim in a way that conveys  _ if you bring up the lovelife of our bosses one more time I swear to god I will break into your phone and change all the names in your contact list around so you end up texting your mom for your next bootycall,  _ but he’s  _ pretty _ sure he doesn’t succeed.

Martin steps into Jon’s cramped little broom closet of an office and looks to Jon to see whether he should close the door or not, but Jon is already sitting at his desk engrossed in a splay of papers. He panics for a moment before swinging it shut, hoping he isn’t making some kind of fatal mistake at his first impression. Well, first impression as a  _ subordinate.  _ His  _ actual _ first impression is already regrettably unsalvageable.

Jon doesn’t mention it, though, when he finally looks up at where Martin stands fidgeting across the desk from him.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes, I just wanted to touch base.” Jon taps his fingers up and down the edge of his desk. “Elias explained to me that you’re the most experienced of my assistants, and that I should trust you to take the lead for most of our projects.”

Martin’s heart twists up like a tangled necklace.  _ “Did he?” _

The adorable way Jon furrows his eyebrows makes that tangle even worse. “I know what you all must think of me. That I don’t have very much of the  _ required _ experience.”

“No one thinks that,” Martin says all in a rush, holding his hands up in front of him.

“I know that I need to _ ...establish _ myself as an authority. And that means keeping things professional. But you don’t  _ seem _ like the judgmental sort.” Jon turns his endless eyes on Martin and suddenly he’s not entirely sure what Jon had just said. Something that sounded  _ very pretty _ in that voice of his. Made Martin melt like butterscotch in the sun.

“Whatever you need, Mr. Bouchard,” Martin says, because it feels like the safest answer.

Jon twitches a bit, almost cringes, and quickly corrects him. “Just  _ Jon _ will do. You can tell the others that.”

“Right, I suppose it’d be a bit confusing anyway, considering there’s two Mr. Bouchards.” Martin laughs, but it dies away awkwardly in the face of Jon’s sour frown.

“I do  _ not  _ want to be confused for my husband,” he says, sounding deeply serious.

“Of course, right.” Martin bobs his head quickly. “Whatever you need, Jon.”

A relieved smile spreads across Jon’s face. “Right. Well, as I was saying, I want to stay professional in front of the others, but I was hoping to be a bit more  _ candid _ with you, Martin.” 

Martin loves the sound of his own name when Jon says it. It makes it sound elegant, a name worth hearing, like something written in a neat script. Or like a name belonging to some aristocrat being introduced at a fancy party. His heart kicks up a beat in spite of itself.

“Of course, Jon, I can, uh, I can keep a secret.”

Jon runs a hand through his hair and then stares at it for a moment, as if he hadn’t been expecting how it felt. As Martin watches, a little shiver runs through him, starting from his chin and expanding down his chest into his arms. He lowers his voice, and Martin steps in a bit closer to catch his words.

“I was hoping you could figure out a way to make it a bit  _ warmer _ in here.”

Martin blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Like perhaps there is a thermostat, or a radiator, or some other such device. I know we’re in a basement, but it’s  _ chilly _ down here. And I get cold easily.” Jon wraps his arms around himself and he looks so adorably uncomfortable that Martin barely holds himself back from laughing. And then he pictures Jon wrapped in his coat, how small he had looked, how  _ vulnerable, _ and he turns his face away before Jon can catch the memory in his eyes. “But I didn’t want to bring up something so  _ inconsequential _ on the first day and make myself look unmotivated. Or petty.”

“Of course I can work on that, Jon. Don’t worry about it. Being comfortable is important.” Martin looks back just in time to see the genuine relief breaking through Jon’s eyes. So expressive. Martin is pretty sure Jon couldn’t hide something even if he  _ tried. _ He’s just an honest, hardworking guy. There was no reason Tim had to be so down on him. “Is that all?”

“Er, yes. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin nods and steps away, turning back towards the door. Before he opens it he pauses for a moment and inhales deeply, but the office smells of wood and dust and the warm undertones of a fancy, mature cologne. Maybe Jon’s. Maybe Elias’. Not a  _ hint _ of salt. He opens the door and steps back out, crossing over to his desk. He pulls out the notebook again, and opens to that same page.

_ He was cold,  _ he writes,  _ and I was his radiator _ . And then he slams the notebook closed and buries it as deep as he can in the drawer of his brand new desk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and his assistants finally settle into the Archives. Now we can properly start the show. I'm sure everything will be just dandy. ;)
> 
> Hey, by the way, thank you all for your kudos and comments on this fic this year! It's been a wild ride and we still have about just under half to go, so keep watching. Fly and I have loved reading each one and seeing who picks up some of our more wicked plans. 
> 
> Chapter 20, heading into 2020. That's a good sign, right? :P
> 
> As always, you can catch us on our tumblrs where we'll be happy to talk fic and Magnus Archives.
> 
> Have a happy new year, y'all!


	22. Adjustments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to figure out the Archives. His assistants try to figure out him.

Jon understands fear. Between his own upbringing and his time on land, it's something that has sunken into his bones, into his flesh. He’d thought he’d be ready for this job, reading and categorizing records of fear. He had believed Elias when he’d said Jon was ready. But now it seems like that was just another trap. 

Humans are complicated. Far more complicated than they’d seemed from the outside. There’s all sorts of intricacies and references and shared common knowledge humans take completely for granted. Elias showed Jon how to search for information on his computer, but even Google provides him with a confusing mishmash of definitions and cross-definitions. And it doesn’t seem to know anything about the Paths at all. Even when he uses Elias’ more human terms, very little comes up. Typing in _The Eye_ simply brings up medical diagrams denoting how the eyeball works, nothing helpful about this Institute or what Jon has gotten himself embroiled in. 

In fact, from what Jon reads in each new statement he pulls off the shelves, humans as a whole seem to be entirely unaware of the very _existence_ of the Paths. It’s almost frustrating to be caught in the sweeping pace of a statement and know exactly what is happening, but unable to escape the simple, innocent mindset of the writer who has lived their whole life assured that monsters were contained to the pages of storybooks. Jon isn’t sure whether he envies these humans for the soft, easy lives they must live, deluding themselves about the danger all around them, or pities them. 

The statements are easy to get lost in, more so than any book Jon's ever read. There are those that are blatantly false, and they almost rankle his sensibilities, like chewing on a piece of dried fruit entirely drained of flavor. But the ones that are true, that are _real_, fill him with a lovely, aching exhaustion, as if the ever-burning fire of curiosity curled in his stomach has finally been slaked. Jon can't help but wonder if that has more to do with the Unblinking, or simply who he has always been.

The Archives feel so _right_, they have since the moment he stepped into them, like a home he was afraid he'd never see again even before he arrived. They seep into the cracks of his soul like a cooling balm, like waves. There is a pressure here, watching him, that reminds him of being underwater. It's not _safe_, certainly, but it's grounding all the same. He wonders how much better this place will feel when everything is entirely organized. Like an ocean of knowledge, full of pearls ripe for the plucking.

Organizing his Archives, however, is taking far longer than Jon had anticipated. Reading a single statement into his recorder sometimes takes up hours worth of energy. Some days he can barely get through one. The fear that pumps in his veins as he reads is not his own, but it is familiar, calling back a lifetime of living constantly hunted through the ocean. One statement speaks of drowning, and Jon feels so intimately the water crowding at his lungs that he panics that evening when taking a bath and has to curl up in Elias’ arms for an hour. Another is a familiar tale of flesh, and by the time he gets to the end he hurries to lock his office door before any of his assistants see the way he is salivating. Or before the sight of any of his assistants makes him even hungrier. 

The worst, however, are the Skinless statements. He seems to keep grabbing them from the stacks, and he feels his flesh _crawl_ at each depiction of people skinned, taken, replaced with glassy-eyed, empty things. It is a _horrible_ thing, to have your identity stolen. To be a puppet of yourself.

Jon keeps the shelf of Skinless statements at the far end of the Archives. His assistants don’t appreciate his organizational system much. Like most humans, they don’t seem to grasp the divisions between one Path and another, and they tend to clump everything together sorted by date. So Jon resolves to do everything himself and makes it clear that his assistants are not to shelve anything until he tells them where it belongs. Tim badgered him for a week to explain his method until Jon finally snapped that he’s organizing by type of encounter. It didn’t seem to mollify him much, but Jon shut himself in his office and ignored further complaints. 

These are _his_ Archives, after all. 

The thing is, despite himself, he _likes_ all of his assistants, or at least he _wants_ to. Sasha, for all the times he’s talked to her, has been kind, helpful, and seemingly non-threatening. In defiance of his own better judgement, Jon _trusts_ Martin, and looks forward to the days he isn’t out of the office doing follow up because he’ll go out of his way to check up on how Jon’s doing, usually with a cup of honey tea in his hand. And Tim? Tim is..._complicated_. From the scattered conversation Jon can hear through his office door, Tim is friendly and apparently very funny when he’s speaking with anyone who _isn’t_ Jon. 

But his time on land has taught Jon many harsh lessons. The harshest being to never trust a charming disposition, or a glib, smooth tongue. The last one he trusted married him. The one before that stole his skin. Charm is nothing but a _trap_, and so is kindness.

On the days Jon works late, Martin always pops into his office to say goodnight before he leaves. It sparks a warm feeling deep in Jon’s gut that tastes like honey and feels like the press of gentle hands. He does his best to ignore it.

Work helps distract him. There’s always more to do. And Elias was right, it’s easy to distance himself from his assistants by focusing only on what needs to get done. Be their boss, not their friend. It’s helpful, also, that it keeps them away from him. Even with his door perpetually closed, and Elias’ careful training, his animal tendencies still slip out. Once, Sasha caught him hunched over his tape recorder, lost in thought, pressing his nose against the edge of it, and she couldn’t look him in the eye for a week. He’d been warned humans wouldn’t understand. He's _lucky_ Elias is so fond of him.

He must confuse them as much as they do him. Jon catches odd glances sometimes, paired with smiles or whispers in his direction when he's passing them to retreat back into his office. He tries and fails to pretend they aren’t _mocking_ him. Laughing at his ignorance. Seeing the _monster_ he can’t fully repress. It gets his back up when he's in his fouler moods, and he wants to snap at them with teeth too dull to be dangerous. They can't really understand him, he knows, not _really_.

The gulf between them is wide, and Jon doesn't dare swim any closer.

\-------

“Even you have to admit he’s weird, Martin.” Tim pokes his forkful of salad meaningfully towards Martin’s chest. The canteen at lunchtime has become the unofficial meeting place for the archival assistants to discuss the odd phenomenon that has descended on all of their lives. _Jonathan Bouchard._ It’s one of the few places they know is safe from prying ears. Elias is above dining in such a public, low-class setting, and when Jonathan isn’t joining his husband for lunch he stays firmly ensconced in his dark, windowless office. Which _cannot_ be good for him.

Martin wouldn’t exactly say he’s _worried_. More concerned. Or maybe concerned is too strong a term. He simply spends a lot of time keeping an eye on his boss, seeing the way that he hunches his shoulders in like he’s prepared for an attack, the way that he shivers even while drinking hot tea, the way that he won’t make eye contact. Normal stuff for an employee to notice. They spend every day together. It’d be crazier for Martin _not_ to notice. _Right?_

“I wouldn’t call him _weird_,” Martin starts and Tim tips his head back and groans. Martin frowns, drawing his mouth in tight and puckered. “I wouldn’t! He’s just...eccentric.”

“Eccentric is what you call your grandmother who has a mannequin in her living room, Martin. Jon is...he’s like...an anomaly. Sasha!” Tim whirls and jabs his fork at Sasha who pauses, sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Weirdest Jon story of the day. Go.”

Sasha flicks her eyes over to Martin and shrugs, half-apologetic. “Well, last night before I went home for the evening, he called me into his office to explain a note on one of my reports. I wasn’t sure where the confusion lay because it was a pretty straightforward assignment, nothing odd in the follow up, basically just rote work.”

Sasha takes a bite of her sandwich and Martin and Tim stare intently, waiting for her to finish. She holds up a finger, then two, as she chews through her mouthful. She swallows and smacks her lips loudly before finally continuing. “Turns out he didn’t know what a clown was.”

“_What?_” Tim gapes and then starts laughing. “What do you mean he didn’t know what a clown was?”

“He’d apparently never heard the word before.” Sasha’s straight face cracks a bit as the corners of her mouth twitch up. “He told me his computer had been entirely unhelpful, that there seemed to be many definitions, but that a farmer or an ill-bred person didn’t seem to make sense in context of the statement.”

“I know he _sounds_ British, but should we consider that Bouchard might have gotten him through one of those mail-order bride type situations?” Tim lays a palm flat on the table between the three of them.

“Can we _please_ not joke about this, Tim,” Martin whines.

“I am only like, sixty percent joking. Bouchard seems like the type to want some trained, silent arm candy.”

“Silent is a _bit_ of a stretch,” Sasha chimes in, taking another bite of her sandwich. “The guy is a slavedriver.”

“Jon is not some _trophy wife,_ Tim.”

“As if you don’t find him attractive.” Martin inhales a bit of his tuna salad and hunches over the table in a coughing fit. Has he really been that obvious? If he hadn’t been before he is now, practically choking on his lunch from an off-hand comment. He straightens back up, face red and eyes watering.

“Um,” he croaks, defending himself very eloquently.

“No crime in admiring, Marty, just keep it in your pants when the big boss comes around.” 

“I _meant_,” Martin forces out, glaring Tim down the best he can through his watery eyes, “Jon is _more_ than just Elias’ husband. He’s highly educated, and in charge of our entire department. And doing a pretty decent job, I think, considering he’s probably never managed people before.”

“I’d hazard to say he’s never _worked with_ people before,” Sasha says. 

“I’d _hazard_ that he’s never _met_ a person before,” Tim one-ups her. “Martin, last chance to submit your own contender before I win today’s round of Weirdest Jon Moment.”

“I object to the premise of this game. It’s mean-spirited.” Martin pushes back from the table and folds his arms. But he stays and listens. Something inside him is always turning Jon around and around, like a puzzle box, pushing at all the latches and buttons, worrying at the corners.

“The other day,” Tim spreads his hands out wide, letting the dramatic tension build as he sweeps his gaze from Martin to Sasha. “I saw him eat a banana.”

“What.”

Tim holds up a hand in front of Martin’s face. “With a _knife and fork_.”

“So...so he’s fastidious. Trying to be clean. I understand not wanting to eat a banana the normal way in a nice suit jacket,” Martin reasons. Jon is always dressed so neatly. He tries not to think about Elias’ hands smoothing down the front of Jon’s lapels.

Tim’s grin grows a little wider, until all of his teeth are showing. “With the peel. _Still_. **_On_**.”

“Oh that’s just inhuman,” Sasha says with a laugh. “I’ll give it to you today. That’s seriously weird.”

“Martin?” Tim tilts his head over and lifts his eyebrows at Martin, waiting for his verdict. “Ready to admit it yet?”

“Oh, sod off, Tim.” Martin rises to his feet and grabs his tray off the table.

“It’s pretty silly to have your head stuck this deep in the sand when you work at an institute that studies the paranormal,” Tim says, leaning back in his chair so he can look up at Martin.

“Jon is not _paranormal_. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go do some follow up for a statement, because at least one of us has to take their job seriously.”

“I’m just telling you to stay vigilant.” Tim’s cheery expression undercuts his words. “There are dangerous things in this world. Dangerous things with a taste for _banana flesh_.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Martin shoves in his chair. “Don’t put our boss on YouTube while I’m gone.”

Tim’s grin only gets wider and Martin regrets opening his stupid mouth. This is all utterly ridiculous. Jon isn’t _dangerous_. A bit...awkward, perhaps. Some odd mannerisms. But not dangerous. Not supernatural. No way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my grandma, who has not one but TWO mannequins in her living room. The definition of eccentric.
> 
> Happy Tuesday and welcome back everyone!!! We missed you all so much, did you miss us? Thank you for all the lovely comments during the hiatus, it's always so so _so_ amazing to see new readers joining on and enjoying the story, and for all you repeat commenters please know that Jess and I recognize every single one of your usernames and hold you so dear to our hearts. You make this story worth writing, and we can't wait to get into the meat and potatoes of the second half soon!
> 
> See you next Tuesday!


	23. Unleashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Elias attend a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for this chapter: Dehumanization, Mild Physical Domestic Abuse, Gaslighting

Jon is curled up in bed with his nose pressed greedily into the warm crease of Elias’ hip before he says, “Martin hasn’t been coming into work.”

He’s found that evenings are his best time to bring up sensitive topics, especially if he’s been good all day. The hard points and corners of Elias’ edges tend to smooth out post-dinner, when he’s warm and relaxed and enjoying the quiet certainty of Jon’s company. Perhaps being reminded that he owns Jon in every way that matters strokes his ego. Makes him lenient, like a king taking pride in each little boon he grants.

“Hm?” Elias responds, laying a finger down in the book open in his lap and turning to look at Jon. And he has to admit, that is nice, the weight of Elias’ full attention settling over him like a blanket. Jon pulls himself up a bit so that his cheek is resting instead on Elias’ thigh.

“Martin,” he repeats. “He’s called in sick every day for a week. I can’t get my work done like this.”

Work has been harder recently, much to Jon's annoyance. The Archives have been...not quieter exactly, but emptier.  _ Colder. _ It’s taken him nearly a week to figure out exactly why.

“I figured you’d appreciate it. Fewer humans nosing about means less chance of being discovered. That should improve your focus.”

“Why would you give me assistants if you only think they slow me down?” Jon tilts his head a little to peer up at Elias, studying his face.

“I wasn’t about to send you in blind, Jonathan.” Elias reaches down and tangles his fingers in Jon’s hair. He scratches gently at his scalp and Jon’s eyes sink closed. “Besides, you still have two, that should be plenty. Mr. Blackwood is  _ hardly _ the most valuable of your resources.”

Jon looks away from the humor in Elias’ eyes. “I know him the best of them,” he responds, softly.

“Right, of course. You  _ did _ run into him on your first day at the institute didn’t you?” Elias lets his hand slip down from Jon’s hair to cup his cheek for a moment, and then continues down until he’s gripping his chin. With a sure movement he tugs Jon upwards towards him, leaving Jon to scramble to get his hands underneath himself. He winds up half braced against Elias’ chest, eye to eye with him. “You selkies. So  _ clingy. _ Always so attached to the first thing that comes across you.  _ Adorable, _ really.”

Elias slides his hand from the base of Jon’s throat back up to his chin, dragging him forward with the friction until their lips are pressed together. Jon moans deep in his throat, a half-aborted protest that ends up sounding shamefully pleasured. He closes his eyes and lets Elias slip his tongue between their mouths. It is easy and familiar, and Elias holds Jon’s pliant body against his with a practiced confidence. Jon feels like runny wax, melted into the shape of Elias’ body.

“You’ve come so far,” Elias whispers as they pull just barely apart.

“So you’ll find him?” Jon asks, only a tad breathless.

Elias nudges Jon’s face to the side with his nose and bites gently at the bottom of Jon’s earlobe. “Find who?”

Jon shivers and clenches one hand in the silk of Elias’ nightshirt, bunching the smooth fabric. “Martin. I  _ know _ you know where he is.”

“Do I?” Elias’ voice is still playful, but Jon feels the tension in his hand against Jon’s back when he brings up the name. He changes tactics, looking back and pressing his forehead endearingly into the side of Elias’ head.

“You know  _ everything,” _ he murmurs.

“You’re an  _ incorrigible _ flatterer,” Elias says, turning his face in towards Jon’s and capturing him in another brief kiss. “But you’re right. And there’s no need to worry about dear Martin, he’s merely at home with a bug. Nothing you can do.”

“But he’s my assistant, shouldn’t I—“

“What you need, my lovely Jonathan,” Elias cuts him off, “is a  _ distraction. _ You’ve been working far too hard.”

Something in Jon immediately shrinks in, wary of whatever Elias is suggesting. It must show in his eyes because Elias’ smile deepens into a smug satisfaction.

“How would you like to go on an outing tomorrow evening? Someplace new.”

“Not the Institute?” Jon shifts his weight slightly and Elias tightens his arm around Jon’s waist as if he’s afraid he’ll slip away.

“No.” Elias tilts his head and kisses the side of Jon’s throat, and Jon can feel his heartbeat thudding beneath his lips. “And if you’re  _ very  _ good, we can even see the ocean while we’re there.”

\---

“A party?” Jon asks, staring up at the intimidating wooden door arching up in front of them. He fiddles with the bottom of his suit jacket. He hadn’t been so dressed up since his wedding, and the process of getting ready had brought back all kinds of unpleasant memories he wished had stayed buried.

“That sounds so pedestrian, Jon. This is more of a  _ gala.” _ Elias takes the bottom of Jon’s elbow and pulls it meaningfully and Jon’s hands immediately go still and stop fidgeting. With his other hand he grabs the intricate brass door knocker molded into the shape of a fish and knocks twice.

“I don’t think I  _ belong _ at galas.” Jon reaches out and grabs Elias’ arm. His husband looks down with a brief disapproval until Jon slips his elbow beneath Elias’ and settles into a more formal pose.

“You’re my  _ husband. _ You belong wherever I am.” Just as the door swings open, Elias kisses his cheek quickly. Jon supposes it’s meant to be reassuring.

Jon doesn’t recognize the man who opens the door, but from the way Elias glides past him without even meeting his eyes, he assumes he must be staff. The inside of the mansion is even more impressive than the outside. He’d expected it to be  _ lavish, _ but besides the thick carpeting deadening their steps and the impossibly high crystal chandeliers, the furnishing is almost bare. The wallpaper is faded. Deeper in the house, Jon can hear the quiet bubble of conversation, but it sounds impossibly far away. He tucks in tighter to Elias’ side and his husband takes pity on him, allowing him this small comfort.

Finally, they reach the main room. The banquet hall, Jon supposes, from the wide stretch of table all down the center of it. The walls are dark and shiny wood, and huge picture windows on either end look out into the night, showing a well-tended but empty garden. Guests are scattered about the room, making small clumps and talking quietly. The extravagant table, piled with crystal and fine china, sits entirely ignored. There is something very lonely about the rows of chairs, intentionally set but unoccupied. Jon shivers.

Elias stops them just inside the door, halting Jon with a careful hand pressed to the small of his back. One by one, the guests look over and see them standing near the entrance. Jon wants to hide from all the attention, but Elias holds him steady, forcing him to simply stand and wait. Finally, someone breaks the tension and steps towards them, and Jon finds himself oddly relieved to recognize the broadly smiling face of Simon Fairchild. He tails another man along with him, shorter and more neatly kempt, with a branching scar cutting up the side of his throat.

“Why Jonathan, you’ve only grown more beautiful since I saw you last.” Simon takes Jon’s hand and sweeps down in an extravagant bow to press his lips to his knuckles. 

“Simon, it’s rather gauche to seduce a man at his own presentation in the presence of his husband.” Elias’ smile is tight and cold, but Simon laughs anyway.

“No crime appreciating a lovely thing.”

“Presentation?” Jon asks, turning to look up at Elias. 

“As Archivist,” Simon answers instead. “Welcome to the game, kiddo.”

Elias slides his hand up from Jon’s back and grips lightly at the base of his neck. “It is important for people to know who you belong to, Jonathan.”

“I’ve never met a selkie before,” the unfamiliar man says, measured and thoughtful. He leans in just a bit and lets his eyes trail up and down Jon, considering him. “I’d heard your kind smell just like the ocean. Wearing too much cologne, are we?”

“Our pelts are part of the ocean,” Jon snaps. Elias tightens his fingers on Jon’s neck and he settles, tucking his chin in just a bit. “My  _ skin _ smells like salt. But I haven’t worn it in a long time.”

“Ah, of course.” The man leans away again and nods.

Simon turns to face his companion and shrugs apologetically. “I don’t know if he’ll quite live up to the expectations I set for you, Mike. He’s not all he was last time. He’s lost some of that edge. He used to have this  _ wild _ energy to him.”

“He’s settling well into being human,” Elias says, pride in the edges of his voice.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of domestication,” says Mike. “We live in a polite society. It’s no place for monsters.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it  _ domesticated. _ Pleasure to see you as always, Elias. I don’t recall giving you a plus one.” Jon’s heart freezes, the blood slowing to a crawl and leaving him lightheaded. If he didn’t have the warm and sturdy press of Elias’ hand on the back of his neck, he might have fainted. Peter Lukas holds his champagne flute in front of him like a knife as he approaches, looking through Jon to smile at Elias. 

“I’ve appointed Jonathan as my Archivist, actually. I’m here to present him to the society.” Nothing in Elias’ pleasant tone betrays the violent ending of the last time Peter had confronted them. They might as well be discussing the weather.

“Is that so.” Peter raises his eyebrows and takes a long sip of champagne. “Well. I suppose you had to escalate from Gertrude somehow. You always were big on drama.”

Elias smiles and Jon can feel the insincerity pouring off him from the proximity. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you don’t think I read much, but even I know that you shouldn’t let a wild animal into a library.”

Mike snorts, flicking his nose derisively. His eyes land on Jon’s tucked chin, the knot of his tie, the firm hand resting on the back of his neck. “I’d hardly call him wild.”

“Careful with that one, Michael,” Peter leans over and holds up a hand next to his mouth to emphasize his false whisper. “It’s got nasty little teeth in its nasty little mouth.”

_ “I hope it scarred," _ Jon snaps with an audible clack of his teeth, but he can’t bring himself to look Peter in the eye. 

_ "Jon." _ Elias’ voice lowers in warning, but Jon almost can’t hear it over Simon bursting into laughter.

“Did he  _ bite you, _ Lukas? I wish I’d been there to see that!”

Peter shoots Simon an unimpressed look before taking a step forward, towards Elias. “This gathering is for avatars, Elias. Not animals.” Jon looks up just in time to see Peter watching him with a broad and icy smile. “Pets belong outside.”

“This gathering is for people in our  _ society, _ Peter.” Elias sweeps a hand out to encompass the scattered groups of people spread out across the room. “Like it or not, my Jonathan is a part of that.”

“There’s a line to be drawn here, Elias. The sea is full of rabid selkies, and the streets are packed with brainless vampires. Are we going to open our gatherings to every fresh-faced werewolf with blood on its teeth who can carry a tune?” Peter resettles his heavy coat on his shoulders and Jon nearly gags at the thick scent of seawater that rolls over him. He can almost see the fog creeping in at the edges of his vision. “My dear, be sensible.”

Jon had almost thought Elias was listening, but as Peter’s voice turns soft and endearing Elias’ spine goes stiff. “This is not just  _ any _ selkie. This is my  _ Archivist. _ And my  _ husband. _ And you will treat him with the respect he deserves.  _ As a human." _

“Oh, are we calling that thing human, now?”

“He’s more human than  _ you’ve _ ever been,” Elias hisses.

“Boys, boys, please.” Simon steps forward and waves his hands disarmingly. “I know how lovers’ quarrels can be, but we’re all friends here.”

“Or at least we can pretend to be for the evening,” Mike adds from where he stands slightly aside, casually inspecting his nails.

“The point is, Elias is vouching for Jon and I, for one, think he’s a  _ wonderful _ conversationalist. I’m always saying this group needs to broaden its perspectives.” Jon doesn’t know how to properly interpret the wink Simon tosses his way.

Peter waves away the argument with a callous gesture and smiles indulgently. When Peter catches Jon’s eye, he feels his throat begin to close up in panic. “Well, Elias, if you want to take responsibility for keeping it under control, I’m not going to stop you. As long as it remains on its leash.”

Elias slides his hand up and tangles it in the short hairs at the back of Jon’s neck, holding him tight to stop the instinctive lunge Jon feels building beneath his skin. His voice, when he speaks, is cool and disaffected. “He won’t be any trouble to you, Peter.”

“I—” Jon begins, almost snarling, but Elias tugs him deftly closer by his hair and presses a meaningful kiss against his temple. Jon shuts his mouth, ducks his shoulders, looks down at his feet, and says nothing.

“See that he isn’t,” Peter replies with a nod. Jon almost swears he sees Peter flick his eyes up and down Jon’s body with a glint of anticipation in his gaze, but then he turns away and the tension shatters like brittle ice. 

“Unpleasant, isn’t he?” Simon says with a laugh. “Best to keep an eye on your Archivist or you might never see him again.”

“Peter knows better than to upset me,” Elias answers with equanimity. He releases Jon’s hair and moves his hand to rest comfortably on Jon’s hip, pulling him ever so slightly into his side. It is familiar, and warm, and Jon turns his gaze pointedly away from the retreating form of Peter Lukas to trace the nearby profile of his husband’s face. He has lived his whole life in the ocean, he knows what it means to be hunted. But he’s unfamiliar with the strange comfort of feeling protected.  _ Valued. _

If he leans into Elias’ shoulder, covers Elias’ hand on his hip with his own like a promise, he can  _ almost _ pretend the strange feeling is love.

They make their way through the party, entangled in this way. Elias smoothing his way through each conversation with grace and poise, Jon playing the silent companion at his hip. It’s not so bad, easy enough to drift off and let the conversation roll up and over him like a bubbling stream.

“Ah good, I was hoping you would be here, Mr. Bouchard. I brought your package with me, just in case we crossed paths.” 

For the second time that night, Jon forgets how to breathe. It’s as if the air had turned to water and his useless lungs strained and filled and died and drowned. He turns just a bit to see a man approaching Elias, slim-cut suit jacket struggling to contain the broad outline of his shoulders. From the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, Jon can see the swirling edge of an expansive tattoo. 

“Mikaele,” Elias answers with the warmth of familiarity in his voice. Jon’s hand tightens on Elias’ and he wants to throw it off and run from the room and find somewhere to be sick in peace. 

“Took a while to procure, you know how web things are,” Mikaele says, holding out a small, well-lacquered wooden box. Carved all across its surface are thinly engraved lines, criss-crossing in an endless, splitting pattern. “I thank you for your patience and your patronage.”

Jon can’t tear his eyes from its surface. It feels like it's been longer than just a few months. He begins to shiver, deep down beneath his bones. It's even worse than the cold.

“Ah, well, the problem actually ended up resolving itself,” Elias says, reaching out and taking the box. “But of course I’ll follow through on the sale. I can always find a use for something like this.”

“Appreciated, Mr. Bouchard.” Mikaele smiles wide and his teeth are cracked and slanted like a fence left to rot. “Pretty face you’ve got there on your arm.”

Jon can’t  _ breathe. _ His eyes are fuzzing and he thinks he might faint. Elias’ arm wrapped around his hips feels miles away.

“Isn’t he lovely?” Elias’ voice is tinny and indistinct beneath the blood rushing through Jon’s ears. He can’t  _ think. _ He can’t  ** _breathe._ **

“Selkies are a wonder, truly. They’re not all like that, you know. I’ve caught a few, in my time. He’s an exceptional specimen. Almost didn’t want to sell him.”

“I suppose losing him in a wager was the worst of both worlds, then.”

“One man’s loss is another’s gain.” Mikaele shrugs and the movement leaves Jon feeling seasick. “Surprised Mr. Lukas would just give him up, though. Figure an indentured husband would be right up his alley.”

“My Peter is rather inscrutable,” Elias says, flat and insincere. The words spin and fold and twist in on themselves in Jon’s brain.

“Well.” Mikaele takes a step forward and stands in front of Jon, hunching down to come face to face with his wide and staring eyes. “Enjoy the box. And the husband.”

Mikaele reaches out and pats Jon lightly on the cheek. His fingers are calloused and rough on Jon’s skin. “He’s on the house.”

There must have been a moment in between Mikaele smiling at him and Jon tackling him to the ground, but Jon doesn’t process it. He comes back to consciousness straddling Mikaele’s chest and clawing at his face with his unsatisfying nails. Mikaele must have been surprised because he’s twice Jon’s size in height and width, but he hasn’t tossed Jon off him yet. Behind him, Elias is yelling for him to stop, but this time Jon doesn’t listen. He lets the commotion of the party guests wash from his mind as he tries to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of Mikaele’s eyes.

_ "Jonathan, control yourself!" _ Jon is ripped off of Mikaele as Elias grabs him by his shoulders and tugs him backwards. He sprawls on the floor, panting and still seeing red, and tries to lunge at Mikaele again, but he’s stopped short by Elias’ sturdy fist gripping the back of his suit jacket. 

_ “Let me kill him!” _ Jon turns on his knees with a snarl towards Elias, his eyes wild and pupils blown. “He took  _ everything _ from me! He ruined my  _ life!" _

The slap stings across Jon’s cheek before he can process what is happening, snapping his face to the side. The pain blooms slowly, stinging heat beneath his skin. 

_ "This  _ is your life,” Elias says, low and cold. “And  _ you  _ are the one making a mess of it right now.”

Jon lifts his head slowly, looking around the room at the silent and judging stares of the party guests. They  _ know _ he doesn’t belong here. A creature like him. A feral dog among humans, and all he is doing is proving them  _ right. _

“I ask for so little. I’m disappointed, truly.” Peter steps out from the crowd and looks straight past Jon to stare at Elias. His face is smug and his voice is stuffed full of barely concealed pride. Behind Peter, Mikaele staggers to his feet and presses the heel of his hand into a bloody slice cutting through his eyebrow. It suits him.

“I apologize for his behavior,” Elias responds, with a humility in his voice Jon has never heard from him before. He rests a hand on top of Jon’s head and pushes it down, forcing him to stare at the ground. 

“Does it have anything to say for itself?” 

Jon bites his lip and digs his teeth in until he tastes blood sharp on his tongue. He hands clench uselessly at his sides. Elias’ hand in his hair tightens into a fist, and a long moment passes in tense silence.

“Well,” Mikaele says with a smile in his voice, his breathing ragged at the edges. “It’s hardly his fault. You can’t expect an animal to not be an animal.”

“He’s emotional,” Elias tries to reason, but Peter cuts him off.

“Have whatever pet you want, Elias, enjoy your pointless dalliance. But until you can prove that thing is properly trained, neither of you will be welcome at any of our gatherings.” Shame runs hot and quick through Jon and pools in the bottom of his stomach. He grits his teeth.

“I understand,” Elias says, still damnably acquiescent. He grabs Jon by the wrist and pulls him to standing. “But I promise this is an isolated incident. This will never happen again.”

“See to it, then,” Peter nods and Jon’s stomach turns over at the sight of the cruel joy in his eyes. He was waiting for this.  _ Waiting _ for a chance to punish Elias. And Jon had been  _ exactly _ the animal Peter expected him to be.

Elias turns and tugs Jon along with him as they make their way out of the banquet hall under the judgemental eyes of the guests. The doors closing behind them echo eerily in the night and then they’re standing on the doorstep in a silence that is cut only by the distant rushing of waves. Jon feels drained and empty, like a shattered glass lying in a pool of its own spilled water.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Elias takes him by the shoulder and draws him in, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. He stands there a moment, breathing Jon in.

“It’s my fault. You’re my responsibility, and I didn’t properly prepare you.”

Jon folds in on himself, ducking his head in shame. “I got you kicked out of your parties.”

“It’s quite alright, love,” Elias says quietly, resting his forehead against Jon’s and closing his eyes. “You won’t let me down again."

And when Elias says it, Jon believes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SmallHorizons for doing a last minute beta read for us! 
> 
> So, uh, how about that trauma? Don't worry, it'll get better for Jon. Thank you for all your comments and likes and for continuing to follow us on this journey! It was really nice to come off of our small hiatus too see how much you missed us! 
> 
> As usual, come chat with us on tumblr, and thank you again!


	24. Reminiscence and Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reads three statements.

“I can’t find it anywhere. It’s still taking things, though. Sorry about your pen.”

“Statement ends.”

Jon sighs, feeling the energy of the statement giver bleed out through his slumping shoulders and pool on the floor of his office. The fear of losing something important forever. Waking up and finding it vanished. Andre isn’t the only one Mikaele Salese left like that. Confused. _Alone_.

But the tape is still running, little clicks of static cutting through the oppressive silence, so Jon breathes in again and tries to settle into his usual, professional tone. He pauses before he starts speaking and glances nervously at his office door, but it’s closed tight, just how he left it. And Martin is still on his sick leave so it’s unlikely anyone would be bursting in with interruptions. Tim doesn’t bother to check in, and Sasha rarely needs help. He’s safe to talk freely.

Jon balls the bottom of his tie up and squeezes it in his hand. Then he drops it, straightens it out self consciously, and turns back to the tape which has been patiently waiting for him. This is _ridiculous_. 

“This is the third statement about Mikaele Salesa I managed to scrounge up in the Archives, and again, it gives me aggravatingly little. I know Gertrude had her own method for filing related to the Paths, I can see the edges of it in certain folders and boxes, but this is far from the first time I have wished that she had made any kind of reference system. Or picked a more intuitive sorting method. It took me _days_ to even gather these four and I think I’m beginning to understand why.”

Jon sighs and pulls out the previous statement from the pile on his desk and spreads it open next to Mr. Ramao’s. The pages rustle gently as he flips them back and forth. 

“It’s less that a pattern is forming and more that I’m finally understanding the shapeless nature of the pattern itself. The absence of a consistent throughline. This statement I would attribute to an aspect of the Spiralling Path, especially considering the fascination on fractals, although the madness of not being believed could as easily fall in the realm of a Skinless. The one before this was someone giving themself over to the Flesh, of course, and before that he seemed to be closely linked with something precious of the Drowning Ones.”

Jon taps his fingers up and down the edge of his desk, glancing again at the closed office door. 

“And of course,” he adds in a carefully controlled tone, “I know _personally_ that he can walk the twisted path of the Net.”

Jon straightens back up in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut to try and drive away the surge of unhelpful feelings that made him want to throw the tape recorder at the wall. Hadn’t he done enough damage? Hadn’t he already proved just how far being a _monster_ gets him?

“From these I think it’s reasonable to posit that Mr. Salesa doesn’t walk a Path of his own at all. He seems to deal in artifacts and...and,” Jon eyes flick again, like a compulsion, to his closed office door, “and occasionally _creatures_. He lets powerful tools shaped by people who walked Paths do his dirty work for him. And these avatars, and normal people as well, pay him for the opportunity to be _devoured_ alive by things they don’t understand. I happen to know from the paperwork that our artifact storage is almost half filled with pieces that Elias, or his predecessor, Mr. Wright, bought from him. I have not gone in there myself to confirm it.”

Jon shifts in his seat, flipping pointlessly through the pages of the statement in front of him. Even after all this time, he can’t quite shake the fear of Gertrude’s warning. What could be in that room that would be so dangerous? Plenty of humans worked there every day. There was _nothing_ to be frightened of. If there was truly something dangerous, Elias would have warned him away from it. After all the work he’s put into Jon, he wouldn’t risk losing him, right?

Jon hunches nervously over his tape recorder. “After I finish reading through these statements, I’ll look into the artifacts Salesa has sold to us. Perhaps one will give me a clue as to what I’m even looking for.”

Jon shuts both the statements open in front of him with a tired groan. “Recording ends,” he mumbles and clicks the stop button on the recorder. Without the tiny buzz of spooling tape, the room feels startlingly empty.

Jon hesitates a moment, his gut churning with a strange nervousness. He shuffles the folders on his desk and pulls out the next statement from the pile. He hits the eject button and the tape pops out. It feels oddly _heavy_ in his hand, and he has a sudden anxious fear that it could vanish into thin air. But that’s just the statement, refusing to be shrugged off. Jon labels it, taking a moment to admire the neat curves of his handwriting. He’s improved so much since the day he signed away his life. 

When he tucks the new tape in and hits the start button, he feels that tide, rising again. The weight of watching settles over him. He’s already exhausted, but this needs to be done. He takes a deep breath and begins reading.

"Statement of Jeremiah Clyde, regarding an encounter with a mermaid during his employment with Mikaele Salesa. Statement originally given July 2nd, 2015, recorded on March 12th, 2016 by Jonathan Bouchard, head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Statement begins."

The emotions and fear of the man sweep over him, skittishness and concern, and he breathes it in, feels them deep in his bones.

"First of all, I know what you lot do here. At this Institute of yours. And folks like you who deal with all kinds of supernatural business probably already know about Captain Salesa. I’ve spent ten years in his employ and I’ve never had much to complain about. Sure, every now and then you’d see a crewmate devoured by a bracelet made of human teeth, but you learn not to make friends, not to touch what the captain says not to touch, and you get pretty nicely compensated for the hazardous conditions. If you’re hoping I’m going to be here ratting on the artifacts we’ve sold over the years then tough luck. I may have deserted his crew, but I still have my _reputation_ to account for.

“I’m just here to tell you about the mermaid. Because she didn’t _deserve_ what the captain did to her, and I don’t know, maybe one of you can do something to help her. 

“I've always loved the sea, loved the salt air and the vast openness, stretching on forever and ever. It all made me feel so _small_. My da was a sailor himself, served fifty years on the same cargo ship, and whenever he was in port he’d tell me stories of sea monsters and mermaids with their hair like kelp and their eyes like black pearls. When you grow up though, stories fade into just stories. They were more like a faded dream, a childish fancy.

“Well...that was until I started working for Mikaele Salesa. I had been a sailor for a few years by then, started when I was eighteen instead of going through school to help support my mum, but I always struggled to keep employed. I had very little luck sticking with any one ship or crew for any decent amount of time. I used to think it was sheer luck that Salesa had an opening on his crew the same day I became frankly desperate for a paycheck. I heard he was looking for someone from an old crewmate from my days on a fishing rig who still felt bad that I was axed and could usually be trusted for tips. When he got me in front of Salesa there wasn’t even an interview. He just looked me up and down and asked if I could keep a secret.

“Well as any man, I said, and figured it was the truth as long as the pay was good. He pointed at my arms and asked if I _knew how to use those_ and I’m no slouch, but compared to Captain Salesa right in front of me I felt like a skinny teenager fresh off the streets. Mountain of a man. There’s more than reason no one on his crew goes against him. Still, I had my pride, and I told him I wouldn’t be in this business if I didn’t pull my weight, and he nodded and hired me on the spot. Figured he must have been as desperate for crew as I was for a posting. 

“Nowadays I know he picks up three or four new people at every port he comes to. Most of them don’t even make it to getting their cut of the profits. It’s a decent business model, considering his line of work. 

“It was a good job, and despite the nature of some of what happened on board, I did like it. I was _good_ at it. And the pay easily made up for any..._moral issues_ I might have had.

“The day we met the mermaid started as normally as any other. We’d done our job already and were on our way back to London. The air among the crew was cheerful as it often was on the return trips. Most of them tended to think if they got the artifact onboard safely they were done and headed towards a shore leave full of drinking, and a paycheck already half spent in their minds. But I was one of the most senior members of the crew at this point, and I knew better than to let my guard down. Captain Salesa was as prone to get us in trouble as the treasures he traded in. 

“We were close to our destination when I saw Salesa leaned up over the railing of the ship. Thought for a second that he was vomiting or something, but when I stepped a bit closer I could hear that he was saying something. Speaking down into the waves, inviting something up onto the ship. 

“Now I’m not an idiot, and I’m not taken in by fanciful stories. I’ve read plenty on the internet. I know all about how early tales of mermaids were spread by drunken sailors lusting after manatees. But I was stone sober, hand to god. And I wouldn’t be here talking to your stuck up lot if I wasn’t sure what I saw was true. My time with Salesa taught me a lot about the kind of things that are out there in the world, and the creature that crawled up on the deck? That was a _mermaid._

“She had thick black hair, matted just like kelp and shot through with starlight silver. It caught the sun in a thousand ways and I was so enthralled that I almost didn’t notice her eyes peering through the curtain of it. Each one was shiny and hungry and _perfect_ like a pair of twin black pearls. She crouched, small and delicate and ethereal, beneath a thick, gray seal skin. Her thin arms were criss-crossed with scars, as if the ocean had swallowed her and spat her back up.”

Jon loses himself in the statement, submerging himself in the wash of feelings. Distantly something in him recognizes the words even as his mouth forms them against his will. Like floating above himself in a dream, staring down at his distant, sleeping body. 

“Captain Salesa called for me to fetch her clothes, and another man her food and water. I’m not a lecherous man by nature, never been much for a pretty face in general, but tearing my eyes away from her felt like ripping stitches. I went double time down below, trying to get back to her as quickly as possible.

"When I got back to the deck, Salesa had the box in his hand. It was one of the artifacts we’d been contracted to bring back to London, a pretty little thing etched with all kinds of overlapping lines in a mesmerizing pattern. We’d lost a deckhand, Richards, to it. I’d known he wouldn’t last long. Wandering fingers, that one. I was sent for once he was found, holding it up to his face and staring slack-jawed into it. It was one of those puzzle boxes, where you slide the pieces and it makes a picture, and, well. I guess Richards solved it. He never moved again. Died of dehydration a few days later and we tipped him over the side. You get used to these kinds of things, working under Salesa. The man should have known better than to touch what didn’t belong to him.

“But that mermaid, she hadn’t done anything. She didn’t know what horrific fate the Captain was handing her. I admit, I nearly dropped the clothes right there to try and grab that box away from her, but the tense atmosphere and the threat of what might happen to me if I did stopped me. So I just watched with a distant pity for this beautiful creature."

Jon feels sick. His own half-forgotten terror is feeding back into the way he’s reliving the man's story and it’s overwhelming him. He can't make himself stop, the words flowing out like an oil slick, spoiled and _awful_ on his tongue. The whirring of the tape is drowned out by the beating of his own heart, and the rush of his words.

"The way she sat down on the deck sent chills down my spine. It was slow and stilted, like a puppet on strings. When Salesa reached for the skin draped over her shoulders, something in me rioted. That sick twisting _no_ in my gut led me to lurch forward, to try and stop it, perhaps, or—I don't even know, if I'm honest. I lost my nerve a few metres away, and the way Salesa looked at me...like he _knew_ what I'd been thinking, wanting to do…

“But he said _nothing_, the glittering depths of his eyes promising nothing good if I interfered. You have to understand, there were a lot of...less than _legal_ things that had happened on that ship. This..._this though_, was a step too far for me. I had half an idea of what the skin _meant_, what was happening, but my own survival instincts kept me from doing anything, from fully acknowledging _what_ she was."

Jon cannot help his shudder. He wants to stop. He wants to stop reading. He doesn’t need to see how this story ends. He thought he’d wanted to know what Salesa had done to him, but now, too late, he realizes that knowing is a _far_ worse fate. Jeremiah’s emotions are both a match and a contrast to his own that day, and Jon cannot help but hate the way they fit between his teeth. Jon feels his reluctance to rescue him as if it was his own, and even as he reviles him, he can’t help but understand him.

"Salesa wrapped the mermaid’s skin around his arm and whistled at a nearby man to take the clothes from my hands. I slunk off, unable to stomach what had happened. I retreated back into my duties, trying not to watch the way they manhandled the mermaid into clothes. She was so focused on the box she never even noticed them moving her. She barely _twitched_, except for the movements when she fiddled with the box. 

“Unfortunately, they propped her against the railing of the main deck and I couldn’t help but pass by her during my duties. Everytime I passed her she stopped me momentarily in my tracks. The smell of the sea around her was..._overwhelming_, even with the open water so close. She lay slumped like a doll, not even holding up her own weight, the puzzle box in front of her face, her fingers just barely moving to twist piece after piece after piece."

The image is stark in Jon's head, a new nightmare that will haunt his dreams. He doesn't want to think of...of _himself_ like that, discarded like a doll, dressed and undressed and thrown to the side. It chilled Jon to the core, but then again, wasn't Elias doing the same thing? Making him play house, doing his _little dance_ on his _little strings_. The anger, fear, and self-pity, all a heady mix, still weren't enough to bring him out of whatever urge he was trapped in. He tried to force his eyes shut, but they wouldn't stay that way. The words only continued.

"I didn’t want to think of what would happen when she solved that puzzle. The glazed, empty eyes of poor, stupid Richards was still fresh in my mind. I couldn’t bear to let something like that happen to a creature this beautiful. My da had always told me that mermaids were dangerous, luring sailors to their watery deaths, but I couldn’t believe it face to face with this fragile thing. She had such deep, beautiful eyes, full of life and intelligence. It’d be too cruel to let them burn out. 

“I didn’t even realize I’d been standing staring at the mermaid until I felt a hand clasp my shoulder. It was Captain Salesa, grinning as if we were in on a private joke between the two of us. _Don’t worry, boy,_ he said. _I don’t intend to waste him._

“He stepped forward and pried the box from the mermaid’s hands. As soon as it left her grip her arms fell to her lap like deadweights, her eyes still staring blankly into the middle distance. He turned back to me and asked for my help to hoist her up onto the railing. What was I going to do at that point? Refuse and get tossed over alongside her? I’m not _cruel_, but I’m not _suicidal_ neither. She was cold and heavy, like a person-shaped sandbag, but I’ve worked on ships my whole life and one of Captain Salesa’s arms was thicker around than the poor mermaid’s head. We got her up no trouble.

“_He’ll wash up. Ocean won’t take him anymore,_ Salesa said, but I wasn’t really listening because I was too busy staring at the way the mermaid’s head lolled down bonelessly onto her chest. _Don’t you know, this is—_”

“Jon!” The door to Jon’s office bursts open and Martin practically tumbles through it. He looks _awful_, worn and tired, his clothes a complete mess. Jon can see the bags under his eyes, the worry and exhaustion of two weeks. He doesn't look well, but Martin doesn't _smell_ sick, not even the lingering strange heat that Jon knows comes with illness.

"Martin!" Jon is up on his feet, shoving the statement into his desk drawer with a guilty panic. He rushes a few steps forward to catch Martin before he falls, his worry overriding any of the other instincts he's been nursing this week. His pulse races and all he can feel is relief overtaking the anger, and that missing sense of warmth _already_ seeping back into the cold cracks in the room and into his body. Jon tucks his arm under Martin's, and he feels lighter than he should, less substantial, and Jon's gut churns with more worry, overwhelming the warmth he feels at the points where they touch skin-to-skin.

"What happened?" he asks, when he's sat Martin down, and set a cup of roughly-made tea with honey in front of him. It's Jon's from a few hours ago, an undrunk, but still-warm imitation of Martin's. It hasn't tasted _right_ since Martin's been gone, and Jon has been unable to figure out what he’s doing improperly. Hopefully it's enough for now. It seems to settle Martin's nerves, at least, and something in Jon loosens a little.

"E-Elias said you had a bug. And Tim said that after your first couple of texts he stopped being able to get ahold of you." Jon's hands ball into nervous fists, and he can see Martin's doing the same. He looks like he's about to speak, but the words don't slip out until Jon is nearly seated.

"Worms, Jon, _worms_. I was trapped, barricaded in my flat for nearly two weeks! Trapped by worms and what I think was _Jane Prentiss_."

Jon freezes. “The Burrowing,” he murmurs without thinking. It feels loud in the quiet of the room. Jon's read statements, and heard too many stories from older selkies. Stories of parasites _digging_ into you, or rot _seeping_ in and taking over, always _demanding_ to be spread, dragged along by a compulsion to share the song. He doesn't want to imagine Martin, soft and broad, _consumed_ by such a thing.

Martin is shaking when he pulls out the jar of dead worms and Jon shrinks back from it, despite the glass between them. They look like they should still be writhing. He tries to focus instead on Martin.

"You survived," he says, his relief bleeding into his voice, "and you can, we can, _talk_ about it if that would make you feel better."

"A statement?" Martin barks out a nervous little laugh, his fingers still trembling. Jon rests his hands over them. His skin is so warm, almost feverish. 

"Not, not if you don't _want_ it to be," Jon promises, only half for Martin. He doesn't want to feel that fear, understand exactly what it was like to be trapped for those two weeks. He doesn’t need more reasons to feel trapped.

"N-no. You know what? I do. It’ll be good to get it out of me, in case something like this happens to someone else." Martin smiles a weak and crooked smile. “That’s what we do here, after all, right? Collect stories to _help_ people.”

Jon swallows, but he does understand. That is the purpose for stories after all. To serve as lessons or morals for how to walk or avoid the dangers and Paths of life. Something else in him, in _this place_, wants it too. He can feel the weight of it, but he focuses only on Martin, after he changes the tape. 

"If you're sure—" he starts, but Martin nods, more sure than before. Trusting. Jon doesn't realise that his one hand is still on Martin's until he says, "Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding…"

"Regarding an encounter with what I believe may have been Jane Prentiss." He sighs heavily, gathering himself, gathering _his story_ for Jon.

"Recorded direct from subject, March 12th, 2016. Statement begins." Jon nods, awkwardly reassuring, and Martin begins.

The words fill the air between them, a net finely woven and settled over their shoulders to be studied and archived. Jon can practically taste the fear, oddly like those canned peaches Martin describes, dancing on his tongue. He feels steeped in it, his belly warm with something Jon can't name. It feels unlike the usual hunger that this place seems to bring out in him. 

Martin's shoulders and head slump in relief after he's done, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He looks up at Jon, and smiles. It's the brightest thing Jon's seen since the party.

"Statement ends," Jon finishes, like a clack of teeth after a meal. He feels better too, he thinks, and somewhat self-consciously pulls his hand away from where it rests atop Martin’s. 

Before Martin can say anything, Jon meets his eyes. "You should stay in the Archives," he says, decisively. "There’s a cot in document storage for you to sleep on, I’ll ask Elias about it. I want...I want you to be _safe_, and since your flat isn't, _here_ would be best."

Jon cannot explain to Martin that he has nowhere else to offer. Elias’ house was just that. _Elias’_. And it would have been a bad idea for a thousand other reasons, none of which are the oddly panicked feeling that rises in Jon’s throat when he pictures Elias having close access to Martin. The Archives are _better_. They're truly _Jon's_, and despite the dangers of the Institute and what's watching them, it's still the best option available. Jon supposes Martin could maybe stay with Tim or Sasha, if need be, but something in him rebels at that notion too. He wants Martin where he can keep a close eye on him.

For all that Jeremiah Clyde's statement had reminded Jon _why_ he had every right to distrust humans, the look of shocked relief on Martin’s face followed by a shy, unsure smile makes Jon melt a little.

"Thank you, Jon." Martin sounds so _grateful_ and soft. It makes Jon smile too, small and hopeful for something he couldn’t name. 

"You're very welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy Tuesday!! Thank u all so much for the outpouring of comments on last week's chapter. I think it was by far the most comments we've gotten on a chapter so far, and it just makes us so so so happy. We consistently underestimate how much you guys want Jon to claw someone's eyes out.
> 
> Thank you again to SmallHorizons for helping us out with beta!!
> 
> As usual, you can come chat with us on our tumblrs, we love to hear from you!!! See you next week!


	25. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin learns what he should not know. Jon remembers what was lost.

Martin hadn’t really expected Jon to jump  _ immediately _ into preparations for Martin’s extended, unplanned sleepover at the Institute, but then again he hadn’t expected him to offer it in the first place either. So now he’s reduced to standing stupidly, just outside Jon’s office door, watching as his boss strides about giving orders in the snappish tone he usually reserves for critiquing citations. 

“Sasha, you’ll go out and make some purchases. Clothes, sheets, toothbrushes, and the like. Whatever he needs. Martin, tell Sasha your requirements.” Jon waves an imperious hand in his direction, already turning away to face Tim. “Tim, you have a phone so you’ll be Martin’s contact if he needs  _ anything _ or if trouble arises.”

“Having a phone? Is that really my qualification?” Tim asks, folding his arms and cocking an eyebrow.

“Well  _ I _ don’t have one, do I?” 

“Right, because you’re stuck in the 18th century. Newsflash, boss, electricity  _ isn’t _ the devil’s work.” 

A few weeks ago, Sasha had discovered Jon didn’t own a phone when she tried to get his number to stay in contact while on a follow up. Tim had discussed it obsessively with Sasha over lunch, theorizing over just how backwards you have to be to not own a cellphone in 2016. Tim’s guess was that he took those stories about cellular radiation causing cancer  _ too _ seriously. That or he had Benjamin Button disease and was actually eighty years old. Sasha thought perhaps he just didn’t like any kind of distraction while he was working, so he cut off a way for people to bother him. Martin wasn’t sure. There was so much Martin wasn’t sure about when it came to Jon. It left him feeling  _ antsy. _ Like there was an itch of understanding at the back of his skull that he couldn’t  _ quite _ grasp.

“Martin needs  _ someone _ he can contact outside of work hours,” Jon says, folding his arms. “Just in case.”

“Right, right,” Tim sighs. “I  _ love _ being volunteered for overtime work.”

Martin feels prickling heat creep up from the collar of his shirt. “Jon, I really don’t—”

“And you should also start coming in earlier, to  _ ensure _ that everything is well.”

“Oh  _ come on, _ boss,” Tim groans, dropping his head back. “I love Marty and all but, unlike you, I have a life outside the Institute. If you’re so concerned, why don’t you come in yourself?”

“I can’t.” Jon twists his chin defiantly to the side, looking down at the ground. “I ride with Elias.”

“And god forbid  _ Mr. Bouchard _ lower himself to taking the Underground,” Tim mutters under his breath.

“I’ll be fine without anyone checking in, Jon,” Martin interrupts quickly. “You’re already doing plenty. No one needs to go out of their way.”

Whenever Jon looks at Martin, he seems to have something  _ new  _ brimming in his soft, dark eyes. This time, there’s barely withheld anxiety, and a  _ yearning, _ as if he’s waiting for someone to tell him how to be helpful. Waiting for  _ Martin _ to tell him he’s done enough. Martin thinks that if he spent enough time looking into Jon’s eyes, he could unravel all the secrets he holds so tight inside his chest, but Jon is not the  _ sort _ for eye contact.

Martin gives him a half-hearted smile, and Jon flicks his gaze away.

“Speaking of Elias, don’t you need to run this past him?” Martin can’t believe he’s bringing up Elias unprompted, but it seems important enough to warrant it. Jon doesn’t talk much about his husband, and whenever he comes up in conversation, Jon goes abruptly  _ quiet _ and guarded. Makes sense, Martin supposes. It must be pretty awkward juggling having your husband for a  _ boss. _ With Jon already so awkward and uncomfortable among his assistants, Martin tries to keep away from the topic of  _ Elias. _

The fact that Martin’s happy, lavender-colored daydreams shatter every time he hears the way Jon’s voice lingers familiarly on the  _ s _ of  _ Elias _ has  _ nothing _ to do with it.  _ At all. _

_ “No.”  _ Jon draws his hands quickly down his tie, smoothing out the fabric compulsively. His voice is firm but  _ barely _ controlled. “No, that’s a conversation Elias and I ought to have  _ outside _ of work hours.”

(What the hell  _ that _ means is something Martin wouldn’t figure out until later that night.) 

Jon is what Tim calls a “workaholic” and Martin more generously terms “dedicated.” Martin can’t remember a day he’d left the Institute that Jon wasn’t still holed up in his office, statements spread out across his desk like a collage. When the clock hits five and Tim and Sasha head out, Martin loiters uncomfortably around his desk, not sure what the protocol for  _ living _ at work is. Part of him feels like he should keep working as long as Jon is, or at least offer to help out with whatever he’s working on. He stares for a while at Jon’s closed office door, listening to the quiet sounds of shuffling papers that drift through the wood.

But on the other hand he is  _ exhausted. _ It seems silly to be tired when all he’s been doing for the past  _ two weeks _ is laying around in his apartment, but chronic terror is no picnic to live with. Most nights, Martin had gotten less than  _ three hours _ of sleep, and drifting off in the middle of the day always ended with him snapping back to consciousness in a panicked flurry,  _ sure _ that the worms had gotten in somehow while he’d been stupid enough to let his guard down.

Just one night of going to bed early will be  _ good _ for him. He wouldn’t be much help to Jon in this state anyway.

The cot in document storage is  _ far _ from comfortable, but Martin has never heard a more relaxing sound than the thick suction of the climate-controlled door sealing shut behind him. He barely makes it into the pajamas Sasha had bought for him before he collapses into bed.

“...joke to you?”

“Hardly. You’re overreacting.”

_ “Overreacting?”  _

Martin blinks his eyes blearily open, the nearly windowless room around him giving him no clue as to the time. Jon’s voice comes only faintly through the door, but the past few weeks have left Martin a very light sleeper. There is a passionate  _ fury _ curling through Jon’s words that Martin has never heard from him before. It seems incongruent with the serious, self-conscious Jon that Martin has been getting to know.

“Home with a  _ bug, _ you said.” Martin can only barely hear Jon’s muffled words. “As if you weren’t  _ laughing _ as the filth burrowed into him.”

“You didn’t  _ need _ the distraction. There are more important things to focus on.” The other voice, Martin realizes slowly, is Elias’.

“Oh, like  _ parading me _ in front of  _ all _ of your friends.”

“It’s a  _ necessary _ evil.” There’s a shuffle of feet and Martin rolls over on his cot, trying to get closer.

“You  _ knew _ he’d be there,” Jon says, venom threading through his voice. “What did you  _ expect _ would happen? That I’d just forget about what he  _ took _ from me?”

“I  _ thought _ we were past this, Jon." 

“I am not a  _ thing _ to be purchased and locked up in storage, Elias. I’m  _ not _ going to be your perfect, empty  _ doll." _

“Don’t you remember…” Elias’ voice fades out as he quiets and Martin rushes out of the cot. He lands on his tiptoes on the freezing cold floor, and barely suppresses giving himself away with a squeak. He creeps carefully towards the door and presses himself silently to it, ear first.

“...wedding? Promises go  _ both _ ways, Jonathan.”

Jon  _ growls _ and Martin feels his muscles tense with instinctive panic. The idea of little, subdued Jon  _ growling  _ would have been humorous, if not for how  _ vicious _ it sounds. Like a _ predator. _

_ "I’m going to wait in the car." _ Jon says, each word full of snarling intensity.

Martin can just barely hear the sound of Jon’s footsteps stomping away up the stairs out of the archive. A heavy silence falls, and Martin doesn’t dare to breathe in his position pressed up against the door of document storage. He feels his calf cramping up, he’s crouched in an awkward way, but the idea of Elias  _ knowing _ Martin overheard his marital tiff keeps Martin frozen in place. Finally, Elias speaks again.

“Yes, yes, it’s me.” Martin waits for a response, but nothing comes. He must be talking to someone on the phone. “That  _ cannot _ truly be your primary concern.”

“I don’t intend to renege on any promises,” Elias says, sounding calm and composed and not at all like someone whose husband just stormed out on him. “But he’s  _ not ready. _ The party  _ proves _ that he’s not ready."

“You’d think he’d  _ appreciate _ the eyepatch. Suits his general aesthetic.” Martin’s mind spins every time Elias lapses into silence. “I know  _ patience _ is a foreign concept to you, but it’s  _ necessary. _ You’ll have yours.”

Elias is quiet for a long time and Martin presses as close as he dares to the door, straining to catch the quiet lilt of a sigh. “Yes. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it  _ is _ time for a reminder.”

There are creaking footsteps heading up the staircase, but Martin doesn’t dare uncurl himself from the cramped position he’s in until five minutes have passed in silence. The cold has seeped into his muscles and he  _ shivers _ uncontrollably. Martin’s brain is still so tired he cannot even begin to parse the conversation he overheard. There seemed to be so much going on beneath the surface, references to things he has  _ no idea _ about.

Not that it was any of his business. None of this is any of his business. What is he  _ doing, _ eavesdropping on his bosses’ martial concerns? This is at least  _ three _ layers of bad and wrong. And after Jon went out of his way to let Martin stay in the archives, Martin repays him by snooping on his private concerns.

Martin sighs and opens the door to document storage, stepping out into the quiet, dark archives. They’re empty, now. He still doesn’t know what time it is, the only clock in the basement is an old fashioned analogue in Jon’s office. Everyone else just uses their phones. He feels oddly like he’s trespassing, walking through the archives in his bare feet and pushing open the heavy wood door to Jon’s office. It feels  _ illicit, _ like he’s breaking in, even though it’s unlocked and he’s been in here a hundred times.

When he flicks on the light, Martin curses quietly and squeezes his eyes shut. It usually feels dim in here, but now the incandescent light is stark and overwhelming. He pads over to Jon’s desk and lets his fingers drag gently against the surface as he leans over to check the clock. He goes out of his way not to knock Jon’s chair, filled with an odd paranoia that Jon might  _ know _ he was in here.

8:30. Not even that late. But he supposes that makes sense if Elias and Jon hadn’t even left yet. He ought to go back to bed, his head is starting to ache.

Martin turns to leave when his thigh bangs into a half-open drawer. He looks down, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. The drawer is stuck open because there is a statement crushed into it that’s poking out the top. It’s not  _ like _ Jon to leave things messy like this, he’s usually so serious about keeping the files from getting creased and bent.

Martin pries the statement free, intending to put it back in neatly so that it doesn’t get ruined, when he is suddenly struck by the memory of Jon scrambling to shove a statement in a drawer when Martin came into his office that afternoon. Like he’d been trying to  _ hide _ it.

_ Oh come on, Martin. First you eavesdrop on him and now you’re snooping through his papers? _

Martin hates himself as he flips open the front of the folder. The statement in it is still open to the last page.

_ That evening, as we pulled into port, I couldn't get that image out of my head. I already knew I had to quit, but I was still working up the courage. No amount of money was worth what we had done, taking this lovely creature’s skin and tossing her overboard.  _

_ We had hardly gotten into port when I saw another captain, Peter Lukas, coming up on board. He had a habit of playing cards with Captain Salesa when they were both in the same port, so I didn’t think much of it. I retreated to my bunk to pack my things, resolved to hand my notice to the captain when he finished with his game. I lingered outside his cabin, rehearsing the words in my head. _

_ Captain Lukas opened the door first, and he had bundled in his arms a thick, gray skin. I recognized the mermaid’s coat immediately. I could see Salesa over his shoulder, shaking his head and lamenting his loss as if it was all just some joke to him. I felt sick. The thought that he could steal the mermaid’s coat and cast her off without remorse and then bargain it in a game of cards as if it wasn’t even worth anything to him was too much for me. I don’t remember what I said, but it was definitely bad enough to ensure I won’t be hired by Salesa or any of his associates ever again. Which is fine by me. _

_ Salesa wished me well, too calmly, and I could see the threat in his eyes. I already knew that if I told anyone what I’d seen on this ship they wouldn't believe me. But his eyes promised that if I said anything he’d make sure I never saw the light of day again.  _

_ I fled with my things. _

_ Outside the ship, I was shaking a bit, leaning on a post, when I saw her again. Our mermaid. I warned her, told her what I'd seen and heard. The way she looked at me, snapped at me...I knew I deserved it. I did this to her as much as the rest of them.  _

_ I just hope she managed to find her skin after that. Or that you people can help her. She’s bound to still be wandering around somewhere in London with her inhuman eyes, like twin black pearls. She needs someone’s help. She deserves far better than what was done to her.  _

_ Than what Captain Salesa and I did to her. _

Martin closes the file folder and slips it back into the drawer. He flicks off the light before leaving the office and heads straight back to document storage, curling up under his thin blanket. The statement had opened up a sad, hollow pit in his stomach. Perhaps it was the  _ aching _ feeling of  _ regret _ that seemed to come through the words. _ _

Or perhaps it was the way the description of the mermaid’s eyes fit Jon’s eyes  _ perfectly.  _

***

“...The last section, naturally, is the one that invites my skepticism, but let us disregard that for now and discuss the other aspects. Sasha has confirmed that—“

Jon cuts off suddenly as his arm spasms, sending the tape recorder clattering to the ground. He clutches a hand to his chest and shakes with the mess of  _ sensation _ rolling up and over him like a wave. Every hair on his body prickles, and he closes his eyes to ride out the shuddering palpitations that wrack his body.  _ Someone is touching his skin. _

“Jon? Jon!” Jon almost doesn’t hear Martin burst into the room as he heaves in heavy breaths. He braces a hand on the top of his desk, face flushed, shivers of impossible and unasked for pleasure  _ rippling _ through him.

_ Elias. _ He has it. Right  _ now. _

“I think he might be having a...a stroke, or something! Tim can you dial 999?” Martin reaches out a hand to press his palm to Jon’s forehead. Jon barely manages to clench his teeth before he moans piteously. The feeling of Martin’s fingers, the lightest brush on his skin, it’s all  _ too much, _ his eyes are going hazy.

Jon smacks Martin’s hand away from him violently, almost snarling, and Martin recoils like he’s frightened. Jon wonders for a moment what his eyes look like, pupils blown and impossibly dark. Dark like a wild animal.

“Get  _ away _ from me,” he growls and staggers to his feet. “Get  _ out _ of my way.”

“Jon, you really don’t look good, I think, you should probably sit down at least, I think you have a fever or—“

“Get out of my  _ way, _ Martin.” Jon shoulders bodily past him, ignoring the way his skin vibrates beneath his shirt where they touch. He needs to get to Elias. If he rushes, he can get there before he hides Jon’s coat again. Maybe he can see where Elias is  _ keeping _ it. This is his chance.  _ He can’t waste it. _

Jon makes his staggering way towards Elias’ office, forcing his way through the waves of overstimulation that threaten to bring him to his knees. He pictures Elias sitting in his high-backed chair, reclining casually, Jon’s coat spread across his lap like a blanket as he strums his fingers against the delicate flesh. Jon shivers with  _ something _ that isn’t entirely Elias’ fault.

By the time he reaches the hallway, the shocks have receded and Jon quickens his pace, hoping  _ desperately _ that he’s not too late. He shakes away the unhelpful voice in his head that says Elias is watching him even now, knowing how close Jon is coming, timing  _ exactly _ when to hide his skin away again. The despair settles thick in Jon’s throat. Knowing it’s in Elias’ office does nothing if he can never go  _ anywhere  _ unsupervised. 

“Well, if it isn’t Elias’ pretty little  _ thing." _

Jon has to skid ungracefully to a halt to avoid a full on collision with the broad-chested man who appears in front of him, just as he’s turning the corner towards Elias’ office. The familiar scent of sea salt hits him before he even looks up to see the face.  _ Peter Lukas. _ Jon takes two quick steps back.

Peter smiles, revealing rows of broad, even teeth. “Oh, are you  _ scared, _ puppy? That’s not right. I haven’t even shown you  _ why _ you should be scared yet.”

“You’re the one who should be _scared.”_ Jon pulls his lips back to show his fangs.

Peter holds his hands up in mock terror. “Oh yes. We all saw the number you did on poor Mikaele at the party. Someone ought to get you_ neutered._ But then,” Peter gives a half-hearted shrug. “I suppose that would _ruin_ the only point of you.” 

Jon curls his shoulders in defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was hoping to meet with your owner, actually. I think I might have been a little _unfair _to you.” Peter steps forward and slings a burly arm around Jon’s shoulders. It sends a shiver through him, a _cold_ that twines into his lungs and _chokes_ him. It is the opposite of everything Jon felt as Elias stroked his skin. The absence of warmth. The absence of _connection._ The absence of **_anything._** Jon drops from everything to nothing in an instant and it leaves him gasping for air.

“I’m sure we can all agree that we were  _ disappointed _ in how the party last week ended,” Peter pats Jon’s shoulder in a friendly way and Jon is too frozen to even shiver. “And it was a little bit of  _ everyone’s _ fault, wouldn’t you say? So I thought to myself, why not be the bigger man? Take the first step? Bridge the gap?”

Jon stares at Peter in terrified fixation as he leans in too close. “You know,” Peter whispers, huskily, “since Elias is  _ my _ husband it’s sort of like you belong to  _ both _ of us.”

“Elias is  _ my  _ husband. Not yours.” Jon is choking on the smell of salt as it crowds into his lungs.

“Only because you  _ made _ him marry you.” Peter is leaning in and Jon is leaning away, stumbling the few steps closer to the wall until his shoulder hits and he cannot escape. 

“I  _ made him _ marry me?” The cold fuzzes in Jon’s ears until he cannot tell if he’s even hearing Peter properly.

“Well I’ve heard you selkies are awfully sensitive,  _ needy _ creatures. You want to  _ belong, _ don’t you? You crave an  _ owner." _ Peter takes his hand off Jon’s shoulder to brace it on the wall behind him, boxing him in with his broad chest. “Obedience. That’s your nature, isn’t it?”

“I...I don’t...” Jon struggles to find the words.

“But Elias and I have  _ always _ been together. Again and again. Through _ everything. _ Through more than you can imagine. He’ll get bored of  _ you _ and he’ll come back to  _ me, _ just like he always has. We have something you’ll  _ never _ have.” Peter’s face splits again with that awful grin. “A  _ true _ connection.”

“No. Elias  _ chose  _ me.” Jon’s breath comes too quickly, tight in his chest. “He loves me, he said so, he  _ told me _ he loves me.”

“Oh, puppy.” Peter taps two fingers against Jon’s jaw and they numb his skin. “And you  _ believed _ him?”

“That’s  _ quite enough, _ Peter."

Just the sound of Elias’ voice floods Jon’s chest with warmth. The firm hand grabbing Jon’s arm feels even better, and he gratefully lets himself get tugged behind the safety of Elias’ back. He curls his fingers into the smooth fabric of Elias’ shirt and buries his face in tight. Distantly, he remembers being angry at Elias for  _ something, _ but it’s buried beneath the ice.

“I  _ was _ being polite, Elias.”

“What are you doing here?” Jon can feel the waves of Elias’ anger and disapproval radiating out of him, but they’re directed away, and they fill Jon with a gentle sense of safety. Elias is here now. Elias will  _ protect  _ him. Elias loves him. He said he did. He wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

“An attempt at  _ peace, _ Elias, nothing more. I’m sure  _ you’d _ rather not be ostracized from our community, and  _ I’d _ like it if no one else got mauled by a rabid beast.”

Jon can feel Elias’ back tense up. “You’re not welcome around my Jonathan.”

“Now, now, let’s be reasonable…”

“You keep your hands off my husband,” Elias says, each word aimed like a dagger at Peter’s chest. “And you stay out of  _ our _ Institute.”

Peter scoffs and turns his back, saying nothing more. As he retreats down the hall, the cloud of cold leaves with him, and little by little Jon can feel his blood flowing again. It makes his fingertips tingle. 

Elias turns around slowly so that Jon has a chance to disentangle his fingers from their grip on his shirt. He smooths a hand over Jon’s cheek and Jon leans into it, whimpering a bit at the sensation. Elias’ eyes soften as he traces them over the contours of Jon’s face.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Jon pulls his face away from Elias’ hand, trying to think through the fog.  _ “Don’t touch me.” _

Elias’ face pulls into a perfect mask of sweet concern. He keeps his hand held up, but doesn’t reach out with it. “Jonathan…”

“No. I’m st-still angry,” Jon’s teeth start to chatter, undercutting his point. “You don’t _get to_ _just…”_

“Then _ be _ angry,” Elias says, softly. “I won’t just stand here and watch you  _ fade away.  _ Even if you  _ hate  _ me for it.”

Jon can feel the warmth radiating off of Elias’ skin even though they aren’t touching. He’s like a glowing beacon, and Jon wants  _ nothing more _ than to press himself against his husband and tuck his numb fingers over Elias’ heart. He’d come up here to chase his skin, but he knows it’s too late now. It’s gone, hidden away again, and if he tried to ask about it, Elias might get angry. Might leave him alone here, with the frost sinking into his bones. When Jon strains his mind to try and  _ feel _ his skin nearby, he hits a cold wall of lonely fog, and feels nothing more. 

Jon hesitates, shivering in his stalwart pride, but who is he fooling? He  _ needs _ this. And he has nothing  _ left _ to lose. With a soft, broken sound, Jon leans forward and presses his face into Elias’ hand like a cat,  _ melting _ at the press of hot flesh against his cheek.

“You’re so cold,” Elias murmurs, rubbing his thumb up and down Jon’s frozen skin. He leans forward and presses his mouth to Jon’s in a soft,  _ possessive _ kiss. The heat of his mouth is entrancing, and Jon can’t  _ help _ but moan into it, opening his mouth to press in even closer. Elias leans him back gently until Jon is flat against the wall and deepens the kiss, swallowing all of Jon’s needy whimpers. All he  _ wants _ is to be closer, to feel more of Elias, to be subsumed in his  _ warmth. _

Elias pulls away and Jon  _ whines, _ leaning his head back against the wall in a cloud of hazy arousal. Elias slides the nail of his thumb against the corner of his mouth, flicking away an errant drop of spit. He turns his head to the side and smiles, cold and professional. 

“Did you need something, Martin?”

Jon looks over in a panic to see Martin standing stock still at the end of the hallway, his cheeks redder than his hair. His eyes are wide with shock and he starts to flutter with anxious energy as he stammers out excuses.

“Jon  _ was, _ I thought, he s-seemed, he had a fever I  _ thought, _ or maybe a seizure and he just, I  _ thought maybe, _ he could n-need....help.”

Elias’ smile widens, chilly as the lingering cold. “He’s in good hands, Martin. Your assistance will  _ not _ be necessary.”

_“Right.”_ Martin swallows and it makes his whole throat bob. “Right, _of_ _course._ I’ll just be....I’ll just be going. Right.”

Martin nods too quickly, turns, and flees down the hallway. Jon watches him go and slowly catches his breath. He glances at Elias out of the corner of his eye, but his husband seems just as pulled together and  _ unflappable _ as ever.

_ And you believed him? _

“I should get back to work,” Jon says, trying to school his voice into steadiness. The knot of emotions in his chest  _ hurts, _ the resignation and helpless anger settling into a bitter, ocean-cold numbness. He can’t  _ trust _ Elias. He  _ knows _ he can’t. But what  _ else _ does he have? 

“I’ll come get you when it’s time to go home.” Elias steps forward and presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek. Routine.  _ Familiar. _ “Try not to stray too far, just in case something like this happens again.”

_ As if I could _ , Jon thinks, but instead he simply nods and leaves, walking stiffly back to the archives. When he reaches them, he marches past Martin—both of them  _ studiously _ avoiding each other's eyes—shuts the door to his office, and doesn’t emerge for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your kind comments and all the kudos! We really love how much you all like our story! 💜
> 
> Thanks to osirisjones/SmallHorizons for the beta read and to w0rldsokayestarchivist for the adorable art!! 
> 
> [Link to the selkie art](https://w0rldsokayestarchivist.tumblr.com/post/190867585202/some-jon-doodles-for-twodrunkencelestials-ao3)


	26. The Care and Keeping of Selkies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon asks a favor. Martin does his research.

Elias presses Jon back against the wall behind him, keeping him held with the full weight of his hips. He wraps one hand around both of Jon’s slender wrists and pins them above his head so that he dangles, tantalizing and _debauched_, his chest heaving as he gasps in breath. His lips are red and swollen and inviting. A trail of drool spills from the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you pretty?” Elias situates his leg between Jon’s thighs and presses in just a bit until Jon is pulling at the iron grip restraining his arms. Elias curves in, kisses down Jon’s neck, wet and hot, his other hand gripping Jon’s hip possessively.

Jon’s head tilts back until it hits the wall behind him, giving Elias more access to his throat. He moans through his nose, shifting needily, his eyes dark and shiny with arousal.

“_E-Elias_,” Jon whines, just his name a soft plea for _more_. For his husband to give him what he craves.

“Now, now. Let’s not play pretend.” Elias smoothes his way up from Jon’s neck until he is biting at the delicate shell of his ear. His voice is barely a whisper. “We both know I’m not who you _really_ want. You can’t lie to _me_, Jonathan.”

Jon shudders his way through a deep inhale, his chest expanding until it presses up against Elias’. His face is flushed a deep scarlet that only serves to make his dark eyes _more_ alluring. Elias bites down on the tender spot just below his jaw and Jon can’t hold himself back from crying out.

“_Martin_...” Jon moans as Elias presses in closer, holding him flush and panting against the wall. “Oh god, Martin, _please_. Please Martin, Martin—”

Martin wakes up with a start. He presses one hand to his flushed and clammy forehead. The thin blanket on the cot feels suffocatingly hot. He needs a cold shower. _Immediately._

_This cannot be happening_.

Seeing that little scene between Elias and Jon in the hallway the other day was _bad_. And as much as he wants to convince himself that it was just a horrible happenstance in a cold, uncaring universe, he has to recognize that it was mostly his own fault. He’s been getting too close to Jon. Thinking of him like a _friend_ instead of a _boss_. Trying to bridge that gap in his classic Martin way of just pushing and pushing as if he has any right to _intrude_ on the lives of the people around him.

He’d thought Jon needed help. Jon had seemed like….but of course even if he did need help his _actual husband_ works upstairs. Of _course_ he’d go to Elias. Of course Elias would know what to do. Martin should never have barged in like that. 

(Though, they were _out in the hallway_ in a place of business, so. That’s a _little_ on them.)

And Martin supposes he’s getting his just deserts, because now he can’t stop _thinking about it_. The way Jon had looked, and the little noises he’d made deep in his throat, and the wet desperation of his eyes…

Nope. _Nope_. This is not good _at all_. 

It’s one thing to have a crush on your superior. It’s another thing to have a crush on a married man. It’s a third, _much worse thing_ to be having wet dreams about him while _living at the office_. Could Martin’s classic, rotten luck get _any_ worse?

It’d be easier to get over this unfortunate infatuation if he could just escape Jon for one second and have some space to himself, but everywhere he turns Jon is _there_. It’s all getting to be far too much for Martin’s poor heart to handle.

Martin leans out just a bit from behind his computer monitor and catches the tail end of Jon’s head whipping quickly away to inspect the wall of file folders in front of him. Is he just being paranoid, thinking Jon has been staring at him all day? Probably not. As mortifying as this is for Martin, Jon must be _ten times_ more embarrassed. If an employee had walked in on Martin violently making out with his intimidating older husband, Martin would have wanted to _immediately_ move to America to avoid ever potentially crossing paths with that person again. 

(The thought of Jon never speaking to him sinks like a stone through the nervous energy bubbling in his chest.) 

“Martin.” Martin looks up in a panic and sees that Jon is now standing over his desk looking down with a positively stormy expression. His _this is going to be an unpleasant conversation_ face. Martin thinks he might throw up. “We need to talk.”

_This was it_. He was going to be finally going to be fired for having dirty dreams about his boss. It wasn’t what he thought was going to do him in, but he’d always known his days here were numbered. He’d miss his desk. He’d miss his paycheck. He’d miss seeing _Jon_ the most.

“In private,” Jon adds with a heavy, serious tone. His eyes on Martin border on glare and Martin feels himself collapse inside like melting wax. He’s not _ready_ for this. Not yet.

“Sorry,” Martin squeaks, jumping to his feet. “I’m actually _really_ busy right now. We can talk later.”

Martin turns to hurry away, scooping up a handful of papers from his desk as a pretense for leaving. He takes one step before he feels Jon’s hand close, insistently, around his wrist. The contact burns like pulsing fire. Martin tears his wrist out of Jon’s grip, stumbling a few steps back to put some much needed distance between them. He’s married. _He’s married, he’s married, he’s married_. Martin drops his head to the side, but he’s sure Jon can see his blush crawling all the way down his neck and spreading through his ears.

“Sorry.” Jon’s voice cracks just a bit as the word drowns in emotion. “I won’t...I won’t _touch_, I promise.”

It isn’t _Jon_ who needs to make that promise.

“Please don’t avoid me,” Jon’s voice drops low. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, but I need..._I need your help._”

“You made _me_ uncomfortable?” Martin turns to face Jon, his voice raising with incredulity. Jon flinches back from it and Martin takes a breath and recenters. “Jon, _I_ was the one who invaded _your_ personal space. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

“Elias made it so that—” Jon shakes his head, cutting himself off. “You were only there because you were trying to help. You _were_ trying to help me, right?”

Jon’s eyes flick back and forth, trying desperately to read something in Martin’s gaze. His intentions, perhaps. Martin swallows and hopes he isn’t quite as obvious as he feels he is.

“Of _course_ I was.”

“_Why?_” Disbelief and confusion colour the word with something strange.

“I don’t know,” Martin says. “Because you looked like you needed it.” 

Jon roots through Martin’s eyes for a moment more and Martin feels flayed open under his inspection. But when Jon turns away to glance back at his office door, Martin _almost_ misses the weight of it.

“Can we talk in my office,” Jon says with a quiet intensity, “_please_.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees in a half daze. “Sure.”

Martin instinctively closes the door to Jon’s office behind him. Whatever this is, whatever help Jon needs, it’s clearly private and personal. Martin understands why he wouldn’t want it getting out to the gossips in the rest of the office.

“You’re living in the Institute.” Jon is standing behind his chair, his fingers curled into the leather headrest in a deathgrip. Martin can’t think of anything to do except nod, so he does, prompting Jon to continue. “I need you to search Elias’ office for me.”

Whatever Martin had been expecting Jon to say, it hadn’t been _this_. “What?”

“He has something in there that I need you to find.”

“But...but he’s your husband.”

“Correct,” Jon nods. The little furrow between his brows makes Martin take a small step forward.

“Can’t you just _ask_ him to give it to you? Whatever it is?”

“He doesn’t _want_ me to have it.” Jon’s fingers tighten until Martin is worried he might rip the cover of his chair. “He took it away from me and hid it in his office.”

Jon looks a bit sick to Martin, with a sort of longing despair in his eyes, and his fingers twitching a bit with unrepressed nerves.

“But he’s your _husband_,” Martin babbles out again, feeling more like an idiot by the second. Jon’s face flinches into a deeper frown, his forehead creasing.

“Yes,” he hisses out, “we’ve established that _quite_ thoroughly, thank you, Martin.”

Martin almost protests again that Elias shouldn’t be taking Jon’s belongings and that this sounds like the kind of thing they should _discuss_ amongst themselves, or maybe with a marriage counselor, but something in Jon’s eyes stops him. This is _clearly_ serious to him. The _least_ Martin can do is take it seriously also.

“So he took something from you,” he echoes, taking a few steps into the room and sinking into the chair in front of Jon’s desk.

“Yes. A...a family heirloom. A coat.”

“He doesn’t want you to have a _coat?_” Martin can’t help the skepticism that creeps into his voice.

“It’s…” Jon loses his words for a moment, and Martin waits patiently for him to find them. “Elias is….he’s very….against animal cruelty. The coat is made of, it’s a, it’s a _real seal pelt_. It’s been in my family for _generations_. But he didn’t want me to have it anymore because he feels very….very strongly. About that.”

Martin bites his tongue before he says anything about Elias seeming about as _far_ from a militant vegan as one could get. Jon releases the back of his chair and begins to pace in tight nervous lines back and forth behind his desk, hands clasping and unclasping nervously.

“I’m never here when he isn’t, I have no opportunity to search his office while he isn’t watching. But _you_ could do it. He only has _one_ pair of eyes. He can’t be at home with me and here keeping watch over his office at the same time.”

“Okay…” Martin says, slowly, trying not to commit to anything foolhardy. Elias was technically his boss, and while he wouldn’t fire Jon he could definitely fire Martin. “I can’t exactly pick locks, though.”

“I have an extra key to his office.” Jon pulls his key ring from his pocket, slips off a slim silver one, and holds it out to Martin. Martin stares at it and doesn’t take it.

“Jon, I don’t think…” This is the _worst_ idea. Martin isn’t some _spy_, he’s an office worker. He should _not_ be rooting through the head of the Institute’s office. And he definitely shouldn’t be coming in between the marital issues of his boss and his _even bigger boss_. It sounds like the perfect recipe for self sabotage.

“_Please_.” Martin looks up at Jon and there is a raw edged vulnerability in his eyes that Martin has never really seen before. He holds out the key insistently. “Just take the key. It doesn’t have to be tonight, or tomorrow, just take the key and say you’ll _consider_ it.”

“This sealskin coat. It’s important to you?”

“It’s _everything_ to me.”

_Then why is Elias keeping it from you?_ Martin wants to ask, but the Jon standing in front of him feels like wet tissue paper, as if too much pressure would tear him straight down the middle. He holds out a hand with a sigh and lets Jon drop the key into it. It feels like a bad idea cradled in the palm of his hand.

“I’ll consider it.”

***

Martin isn’t sure what brings him up to the library. Maybe he’s just confused, and the idea of concrete information is grounding to him in a way. Maybe he misses his simple days in Research before Jonathan Bouchard descended upon his life like a tidal wave. Or maybe something about a gray sealskin coat was just too _familiar_ to be coincidence.

He spends the better part of an hour gathering every book the library has on mermaids, which isn’t much. Plenty of folklore, very few reported sightings that are in any way _substantiated_. No mention of them putting any kind of importance on a skin. Almost every story involves a lot of _alcohol_ beforehand, and a lot of conflicting reports _afterward_.

Martin isn’t sure what he was hoping to accomplish with this. He’s been working alongside Jon for _months_. Elias has been married to him for far longer. The head of the Magnus Institute isn’t going to just be married to a mythological creature and not _tell_ anyone about it. Then hire him to work in the archives as if everything is _normal_. It’s too _ridiculous_. Martin isn’t in some kind of _storybook_. Besides, none of these descriptions of mermaids sound _anything_ like Jon. The creature that statement giver saw had dark eyes, and Jon has dark eyes, that’s hardly enough to start a conspiracy theory over. A _coincidence_. Nothing more. God, he’s starting to sound like Tim. 

Martin sighs as he flips idly through the pages of the book in front of him. It’s very prettily written, but ultimately a work of fiction. _Folktales of the Sea_. It isn’t even a scientific volume, just a collection of myths from different cultures. He knows he’s just doing this to avoid making a decision about whether or not he wants to help Jon. Of course he _wants_ to help (of course he does) but it’s not _wise_ to get between a married couple when you don’t have all the information about the situation. What if Elias had a really good reason for taking that coat away? Martin couldn’t think of one, but it really wasn’t his _place_ to get in the middle of this. Not to mention how _entirely inappropriate_ and _downright illegal_ it was. He could lose his job, or _worse_. He couldn’t risk that, not with his mom having finally moved into the care home she’d always wanted. She’d _hate_ him if he screwed up and got fired and she had to leave.

It’s not _smart_. There’s no world in which doing this for Jon is a _good_ idea. The key burns in Martin’s pocket. Why had he even taken it in the first place? _Stupid, stupid Martin. Always so stupid—_

Martin’s train of thought is interrupted as his eyes snag on a line of text in the book in front of him.

_A selkie on land wears a coat of its own seal pelt_.

Martin blinks, looks up and around the room as if someone might have noticed, and then reads the sentence again.

_A selkie on land wears a coat of its own seal pelt_.

Searching through the library for the term selkie is _infinitely_ more profitable. Dozens of firsthand reports following similar patterns, folklore that matches up in all the key places, and (best of all) a thick paper manuscript entitled _The Care and Keeping of Selkies_. It looks unpublished, just a collection of papers and brief essays that speak about selkies in a confident, empirical manner. There are even a few full page sketches of a beautiful woman who Martin assumes must be a selkie, with notes on her physical differences from humans, and her transformational capabilities. The page after has a diagram of a plain looking sealskin, it looks more like a shawl than a coat to Martin, just a thick piece of blubber draped over the shoulders.

The notes are _extensive_ and comprehensive, and Martin finds his hands shaking as he turns page after page, _devouring_ the information. He reads a passage about how a carefully kept selkie can appear entirely human. He reads a passage about the thick, sea salt smell of a selkie’s skin. He reads a passage about the seal-dark color of a selkie’s eyes. 

Crazy. _This is crazy_. Martin can’t possibly be _considering_ this. His job must be getting to him. But despite his rationalization, when he finishes reading, Martin tucks the booklet of notes carefully under his jumper and sneaks it down to his room in document storage.

He takes the key to Elias’ office and tucks it carefully between the pages, and then hides the entire thing deep at the bottom of the bag of extra clothes he keeps kicked under the bed. 

Better safe than sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's your friendly neighborhood Fly here, happy Tuesday!! We've loved all your comments and welcome to all our new readers, we're excited to have you here! Also, an especially big thank you Bigfigart who made us some absolutely incredible fanart!! CW for a pretty gory torso that I assume is Elias XD
> 
> Check that out here: https://bigfigart.tumblr.com/post/190901126314/i-am-not-quite-sure-what-to-think-about-this-but
> 
> Sorry for a mildly short chapter this week, it's hopefully gearing up to a big one next week! Martin knows more than ever before....what will he do? Find out next week!
> 
> As always, we love to see your thoughts so so much, leave us a comment or come yell at us on our tumblrs!


	27. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias is late for lunch. Martin confronts Jon. Jon confronts Elias.

Elias is late for lunch. 

He hasn’t _said_ anything, but Jon can tell that Elias has been nervous ever since Peter showed up at the Institute. He has taken to coming down more and more often to the archives to check up on Jon, peeling him away from his work and his conversations with Martin to drag him out to fancy meals in _actual_ restaurants. The realisation that even his own Institute wasn’t safe must have _worried_ him. At this point, Jon was comfortable with the fact that _nowhere_ was safe. Better to keep his guard up, anyway, while on land and surrounded by humans. 

He doesn’t _mind_ the lunches. The food is _delicious_ and each one means a brand new place with brand new people for Jon to greedily watch. He’d only ever been to _one_ restaurant before, for his wedding reception, and he hadn’t realized there were so many different types. They all seem beholden to the same set of rules, but at this point, they’re second nature. Back _straight._ Use your utensils. Elbows off the table. Keep your face _clean._ Say your please and thank you’s. Elias is usually warm and full of pride, and his hand on Jon’s knee beneath the table is comforting.

But now, it’s half one, Tim is already out having his own lunch, and Sasha has made her way through the wrapped sandwich she brought from home. Jon can still smell the turkey in the air and it’s making his mouth water. He taps his fingers up and down the edge of his desk, looking again at the clock. It’s not like Elias to be _late._ Perhaps Jon should go look for him?

There’s a knock at the door, but it’s not Elias. The sound is too timid, restrained. Even before he catches the scent, Jon knows it’s Martin, and he calls him in with an exhausted sigh.

“Hi?” Martin peeks his head in the door and Jon motions him all the way inside. “You’re still here.”

“Astutely noted, Martin. Can I help you?” Jon grabs his pen and taps the back of it against the top of his desk, the sharp sound like the beat of his heart.

“It’s just that you’re _usually_ out at lunch already, by now.”

Jon pushes himself to standing with a sigh. “Did you come in, _expecting_ me to not be here?”

Martin’s cheeks go scarlet and it drips down the sides of his throat. He shows his emotions so _messily,_ like an iridescent oil slick, constantly changing. It must be tiring. Jon remembers being so open. When he was young. Before Elias.

“I _wouldn’t_ go into your office without your permission!” He squeaks, and Jon wonders if he’s come to return the key. In some ways it would be a relief; at least he wouldn’t have to keep up the devoted husband routine all night to ensure Elias stays focused on him. He's growing tired of it, that high level of devotion, false or not, growing like a rot under his skin.

“Elias will be here soon, I’m sure. He’s just gotten held up with something or other.” Jon waves his hand in a circle, feigning more confidence than he feels. He leans against the back wall of his office. “What did you want to talk about?”

Martin opens his mouth to answer, but hesitates, and then Jon’s stomach grumbles angrily, cutting through the silence. He can practically _eat_ the smell of the cereal Martin had for breakfast out of his breath. Jon looks down, ashamed.

“Do you want to get some food with me in the canteen? Elias would understand that he was late and you were hungry, and it’s...kind of a _lot_ to talk about. Might be good to sit down.”

“No,” Jon answers immediately. His hand bunches into a fist in the fabric of his shirt. “No, I don’t think he would _like_ that.”

“Right,” Martin says. “I suppose not.”

“Just say what you’re going to sa—”

Jon is cut off with a crunch, as the wall he’d been leaning against suddenly gives out from behind him and he goes down in a floundering heap of limbs and plaster and paint chips. He hits the ground _hard,_ all the breath going out of his body, and the world _spins_ in front of his eyes. 

“Jon!” Martin jumps forward immediately, but then his eyes stray past Jon and widen in panic. The perpetual blush drains from his face and he looks like he might faint. 

That’s when the pain hits_._ A stabbing pain, like a claw being twisted as it sinks _into_ the flesh of his exposed neck. Elias’ fancy clothes provide only a momentary bulwark before another spear of pain hits his leg, his arm, his shoulder. Jon grits his teeth, holding in a scream so that none of them can get in his mouth. This is _nothing,_ he can _handle_ this. _He can handle pain._ He just needs to get up. Bite his tongue, get up, and get away. _Get **up**, Jon_.

Jon almost gasps when Martin grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles forward into Martin’s chest, off-balance from the unexpected action, but Martin doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around Jon, brushing off one of the small silvery things just barely clinging onto his bicep. It twists through the air as it falls and Jon finally comes to terms with what he’s staring at. 

_Worms._ A whole _nest_ of them. His office is alive with a white, wriggling _mass_ of worms seeping out from the hole Jon made in the wall. He feels the worms still embedded inside him pulsating in time with the rest of them, and he is entranced. Like a single heart, made of thousands and thousands of tiny _mindless_ creatures.

Martin tears him away, more dragging him than leading him out of the office. Distantly, under the rush of blood in his ears, Jon can hear him yelling for Sasha, telling her to get to document storage. 

He’s not sure _how_ he ends up on the cot. He’s vaguely aware of Martin’s face swimming in and out of his view, and Sasha standing guard next to the sealed and locked door. Martin’s voice finally comes into focus, a running account of what he’s about to do with the corkscrew in his hand and the multiple puncture wounds across Jon’s body. He’d rather _not_ hear, but it feels like it’s half for Martin’s own sanity, so he just focuses on regaining his composure and bracing against the pain.

_Weakness is death,_ after all.

Martin tends to Jon’s wounds with a single minded focus, but Jon can see the hysteria building deep in the core of him, threatening to _spill_ out and _over._ Jon reaches out and manages to snag onto Martin’s sleeve, pulling his attention.

_“E-Elias,”_ he manages, through gritted teeth.

Martin glances down at him. “Don’t worry. If he comes down to meet you, we’ll see him and we can get him to safety.”

Jon shakes his head. “No, he’s...Elias will _save us._ Don’t worry. He’s out there getting help.”

Martin smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Like an exhausted parent reassuring their child the universe is fair. But Jon _knows_ better. He can _feel_ Elias’ eyes, always. He snakes a hand beneath his collar and grabs at the smooth glass disc of his necklace. He holds the pressed flowers tight in his hand as Martin wraps what bandages they have in the first aid kit around Jon’s slowly bleeding leg. 

_Finally,_ the heartbeat of worms in his flesh gives way to clean, _natural_ pain. He props himself to sitting, letting Martin give him a supportive hand against his uninjured shoulder. 

“Why did you grab that?” Sasha asks, staring at him from across the room. Jon looks down and notices the tape recorder in his hand for the first time. He relaxes his fist and lets it drop to the bed beside him.

“I don’t...I’m not sure.” Jon stares at it for a moment. There are a _hundred_ reasons he might have grabbed it that he can’t tell Sasha. Can’t tell _Martin._ How it means there's a _record_ of him here, trapped as he is. How it means he_ exists._ How it means he might be remembered as something _more_ than just _Elias’ husband._

But he honestly doesn’t _remember_ making the decision to grab it at _all._

"I wanted a _record _of this event_. _ It's important that stories of people and their, their _traumas_ are passed on. To _learn_ from. And if this is a way to do that…" Jon shrugs, a bit bitter. He still wishes he had _listened_ to his grandmother, aches a little for her voice, even just to be scolded.

"There's plenty of _real_ statements in here. Too many seem false, a _complete waste_ of our time, but the real ones need to be _studied_ and…" Jon pauses, worrying at his lip. "I don't _understand_ why Elias hides it all away. People need to understand all of... _this." _ He waves his arms in a gesture he hopes encompasses the _entirety_ of his archives.

"The real ones?" Sasha ventures, cautious. 

"Yes. The statements that...they have this _aura_ to them, something _gripping._ You know which ones I mean?" Jon flicks his eyes away and down, curling and uncurling his hands.

"The ones that don't record digitally," Sasha answers. Her eyes flick back and forth between Jon and the tape recorder sitting bloody on the bedsheets.

"Yes, _those_ ones." Jon's voice shakes a little. He tries to pretend it's just physical pain, and _not_ the growing sense of unease that's opening up in his gut like a sinkhole. 

He can feel the weight of Martin's eyes on him, and Jon softly says, "I don't want _any_ of us to become just another _mystery,_ buried beneath all of those papers and tapes out there."

The look on Martin's face is odd, his brow scrunched and almost pitying. Jon is too exhausted right now to try and parse the complexities of human emotions. “We’re, we’re going to make it out of this. You’re _not_ going to be just _some statement,_ Jon.”

Jon stares down at the blood on his hands, the words caught on his tongue like a web. 

_I already am._

Jon is thankful when Sasha speaks, so he doesn't have to. He can't look at Martin _quite_ yet. 

"Martin, can you take a peek out there?"

Jon still isn’t looking up as he hears Martin pad over to where Sasha is staring out the small viewing window in the door.

"The worms _seem_ to be backing off a bit, but I think they’re waiting for something." Martin is peering through the filthy window, and Jon tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. 

Elias wouldn’t just _leave_ him here. Not after all the _time_ and _effort_ he’d invested in him. Not after all the trouble he’d gone through. He _couldn’t_ just let Jon _die._

“Oh god, _Tim_.” Jon is pulled out of his thoughts just in time to see the flick of Sasha’s hair disappearing around the side of the door as she dashes out of the room. 

“Wait, Sasha, no!” Jon tries to struggle to his feet but his injured leg gives out from under him. “Martin, what’s happening? Where did she go?”

Martin’s foot is bouncing anxiously as he presses himself up against the thick glass of the window. “She, she got to Tim. Oh, god, she’s uh, she’s tackled him, and the worms went over, and…” Martin cringes and Jon curses the fact that he can’t _see anything_. “No, okay, okay, she made it out, she made it out of the archives. She’s probably going for help. She _must_ be. She _wouldn’t_ just…”

“Elias is up there,” Jon repeats, reassuringly. “He’ll send help.”

“Oh _god,_ Jon, Tim ran into your office. That’s where all the worms are.” Martin turns away from the window, face pale and breath coming fast. “He’s _dead_ in there. He’s _dead_ and _covered in worms_ and, a-and, and…” 

“We don’t _know_ that.”

"Maybe he found the spare CO2?" Martin suggests, sitting next to Jon on the cot, shaking. Their knees bump and Jon feels better, even just having Martin here. At least he isn’t _alone._

"Spare?" Jon asks. "Where did you keep those?" 

Martin is blushing, hands twisting into the sheets of his cot. "In, in the old casefile boxes, so the worms wouldn't know where to look. I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but—"

"No, no, that's _clever. _ I mean, there was a risk of damaging the records but, but that just might have _saved_ Tim. _And us._ Might buy us some time until Elias can get here."

Jon reaches out toward Martin, but then he remembers Martin _pulling away_ and tucks his hand in close to his own chest instead, curling unhappily over it. Martin’s hands come together instead, fluttering together anxiously as he struggles to regain his composure. Martin sniffles in a few breaths, and Jon does nothing but watch.

“Jon,” Martin starts, then cuts himself off, slipping his eyes closed to take a deep, slow breath. When his voice is finally steady again, he continues. “You know, Elias...some of the...the ways he treats you. You know that’s not _normal,_ right?”

Jon looks up at Martin, blinking. “What?”

“It’s not normal that he won’t let you go out for lunch by yourself.” Martin folds his arms and then unfolds them, rubbing up and down his thighs. Jon’s head spins, trying to follow the conversation.

“Martin, we’re in the middle of being….under _siege_ by worms. Why are you bringing this up _now?_”

For a second, it looks like Martin is going to lose his nerve and let it drop, but then he shakes his head and bulls onward. “Why are you _so sure_ he’s going to come rescue you?”

Jon sits up straight, his shoulders rising defensively. “He’s my _husband_.”

“He seems more like your jailor.”

Heat flares through Jon’s body and he tries to rise angrily to his feet, but his injured leg buckles beneath him and he staggers. Somehow, Martin is already there, catching him before he falls. Jon swats angrily at his hands, pushing him away. “Get off of me. Get _off _of me. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know he won’t let you ride the underground. Or leave work without him.” Martin sets Jon down and then crouches beside him, one hand resting flat on the empty floor between them. “I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you leave the Institute alone.”

“So what, you’re stalking me now?” Jon bites back.

Martin is undeterred by Jon’s tone. “I’m your friend, Jon. I can tell something isn’t right.”

Jon curls his knees into his chest, ignoring the throbbing pain from his puncture wounds sending sparks up the base of his skull. “Why do you have to do this now?” He asks, hating the whine that creeps into the edge of his voice. “Isn’t there enough going on? Can’t we just get through this?”

“No.” Martin leans forward again and Jon can’t _breathe_. “I need to know why you trust him.” 

Jon buries his face in his knees and squeezes until his head aches. He feels his edges beginning to unravel, tears of frustration pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Because he _promised_. He promised he would. He says he cares, and he says he loves me, and he wouldn’t keep me around just to let me die. He _wouldn’t_. He _promised_.”

“Did he take your coat because he _cares_ about you?” Martin’s voice is painfully soft.

Jon freezes. He can’t _breathe_ through the tangle of words caught in his throat. He tries to curl in somehow tighter, as if he could make the world stop existing by ignoring it. 

"Jon," Martin says, carefully. "I….Jon, I _know_."

This is it, isn’t it? And he’s too wounded and tired to fight. “Leave me alone.” 

“You….Elias is—he's _abusing_ you, isn't he?”

_No._

“You don’t have a phone, you don’t have a life outside of Elias. He’s practically holding you hostage."

“I _don’t…._He doesn’t….” Jon unfolds his legs and stares down at his lap. Elias’ jacket is torn and bloody. He can’t breathe. 

“He doesn’t hurt you?”

Jon opens his mouth and then closes it, his hand coming up unconsciously to brush the back of his fingers against his cheek. “It’s not what you think.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice is so calm, it feels out of place next to Jon’s whirling thoughts. “Can I touch you? I won’t touch your hair, I _promise,_ I just want to comfort you.”

“My hair?” Jon echoes, helplessly, feeling the deeper meaning sliding through his fingers like water.

Martin scooches closer and kneels in front of Jon, laying a calming hand on Jon’s kneecap. “It’s not _normal,_ Jon. That’s not what a normal human relationship is.” 

“Don’t get involved,” Jon says, his voice hoarse and quiet. He feels eyes on him, eyes _everywhere._ “It’s _beyond_ you. It’s...it’s _too_ much. Just stay away.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you alone.”

Jon lets out a whimpering noise that sounds shamefully animalistic and tips himself forward until he collapses into Martin’s waiting arms. He buries his face in Martin’s chest and _sobs,_ the smell of his saltwater tears almost overwhelming him. _This is a bad idea._ He can’t trust a warm pair of hands rubbing soothing circles into his back. _Not again._ Not after everything. How _stupid_ can he be?

“It’s going to be okay,” Martin is saying, rocking him back and forth. Just _another_ false promise from the lying mouths of humans. Just more empty words. _“It’s going to be okay.”_

But despite it all, he feels _safe_ here, in this instant, for the first time in a _long_ time.

That peace dissolves when something suddenly starts banging on the wall to the storage room. Martin _scrambles_ for his corkscrew and situates himself half in front of where Jon sits curled up on the floor. Jon peeks out from behind the bulk of Martin’s shoulder, readying himself to attack whatever comes through.

“Hi guys!” The plasterboard wall _crumbles_, and Tim steps through grinning like a maniac and clutching a fire extinguisher.

“Tim!”

_“Tim?”_ Jon crawls a bit out from behind Martin, his wounds protesting at the sudden movement. “How, how did you…?”

Tim briefly recounts for them his fortuitous escape from Prentiss and her worms and hurries them towards the tunnels. Tim loops Jon’s arm around his neck under the pretense of helping him walk with his injured leg, but by the time they make it to the trapdoor, Tim is all but carrying him. With worms pouring in from every direction, they can’t very well wait, and they rush down into the dark, twisting passageways.

Jon has never been in the tunnels before, and he doesn’t much _enjoy_ it. His _too-human_ eyes are too weak and poorly-adjusted to see where he’s going, and the smell of dust and rot is _overwhelming._ They take more turns than Jon can keep track of, sudden worm attacks making it impossible to travel in any kind of _logical_ direction.

“Tim, wait!” Jon tugs at Tim’s sleeve just as they reach a familiar looking trapdoor. He looks all around the darkened hallway, but sees _nothing._ “Where’s Martin?”

“What?” Tim looks around as well, but the tunnel is _empty_ except for the sound of their labored breathing.

“We _have_ to go back.” Jon tries to turn resolutely around, but Tim is supporting almost all of his weight, and he _can’t_ go anywhere without him.

“Go back _where?”_ Tim begins lugging them both further down the tunnel. “We don’t even _know_ where we lost him.”

“We have to go _back_.”

“Listen, boss, I know blood loss is a doozy, but we have the best chance of _finding_ him if we go back to the Institute instead of getting _lost_ and _starving to death_ in these godforsaken tunnels.” Tim’s argument does make sense, and Jon can’t argue the fact that he’s on the verge of unconsciousness from constantly reopening his puncture wounds. And he can hardly _refuse_ when Tim carries him over to the trapdoor and heaves it open. 

They barely get the door open before they come face to face with Jane Prentiss and a horde of wriggling, silver worms. Jon bares his teeth in a _snarl,_ but there’s nothing he can do before they rush over and overwhelm him. Tim hits the ground first and Jon follows quickly after. The pulsing pain of them burrowing in is even _worse_ now, and it’s _inescapable._

His last thought before he blacks out is of _Elias,_ and the eyes he still feels hot on his skin.

***

The first thing Jon sees when he comes to is his husband, hunched over him and brushing a cool hand over his forehead, sweeping his bangs back over and over, like a nervous tic. His whole body _throbs_ as if it’s one, big, open wound, but he doesn’t have the strength just yet to lift his head and assess the damage. Elias looks down and smiles. He dares to _smile._

“Welcome back,” Elias says. “You’re alright, don’t worry. I got to the worms before they did any permanent damage.”

“Where _were_ you?” Jon asks, his throat scratchy and thick.

“I had full faith in you to make your own way until I could get to the CO2 release.” Elias slides his hand through Jon’s hair in a gesture that is almost certainly _intended_ to be calming.

Jon turns his head away, glancing across the courtyard. They’re all out front of the Institute, the entirety of the archives staff and the few normal employees who got caught up in the attack. The scene is lit in flashing light from the dozen ambulances and emergency vehicles arrayed around. Tim is conscious, sitting up in the back of an ambulance having his wounds tended to. Sasha is standing nearby and Jon slides his eyes past her, _uncomfortable_ with the odd shape of her profile silhouetted in the flashing lights. 

A nervous tension in Jon’s chest _unknots_ when he catches sight of Martin, faced away from him, talking animatedly to a police officer, gesturing _wildly._

“—inson. The _old_ Archivist. It was her, I know it was! Just sitting there in a room surrounded by tapes. And....and all over her body—” Martin is hyperventilating. Jon can see it in his shoulders. “There were chunks of flesh _missing._ Her thighs, her arms, her shoulders….as if someone had gone in and_ cut off pieces.”_

Elias pets his hand through Jon’s hair again, and Jon feels sickness curling up through him. 

“Let’s go home, love,” Elias says. “You’ve had a very stressful day, the sooner you _rest_ the better.”

Jon groans as he forces himself into a sitting position. Elias’ hand slips from his head and rests gently against the small of his back. Jon tosses his feet over the side of the stretcher, turning pointedly _away_ from Elias.

“I need to take their statements first_.”_

Even with his back turned, Jon can feel the pride and approval _radiating_ off of his husband. Elias leans forward and presses a kiss between two of the bandages on Jon’s throat.

_“Beautiful,”_ he says. “My beautiful, beautiful Jonathan.”

Jon stares at Martin, and carefully thinks about nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday everyone!! Sorry this is going up a few hours later than our usual schedule. Things have been a bit hectic here! I have been away all week at Pax East doing _vigorous_ jazz hands to try and sell board games and so we were working on this chapter until right up til the deadline. Hopefully you all enjoy~
> 
> Holy crap though?? I have so much to talk about here??? You guys are the absolute best fans in the entire world!!! Not only did we surpass our comment record (_over FOURTY COMMENTS!!! You guys rock!!!_) we also got FIVE PIECES of amazing gorgeous fanart! Check them all out here:
> 
> https://gertruderobinsonscat.tumblr.com/post/611253887075303424/if-you-give-a-curious-selkie-a-puzzle-box-tied-to
> 
> https://gertruderobinsonscat.tumblr.com/post/611136624447897600/that-feeling-when-youre-a-happy-flesh-monster-who
> 
> https://raven-dreaming.tumblr.com/post/611219027428327424/will-always-return
> 
> https://twitter.com/creatrixanimi/status/1234669497610428418?s=19
> 
> https://cucumberkale.tumblr.com/post/611537046873440256/my-grandmother-taught-me-about-selkies-said
> 
> They're all so beautiful!!! I would love to wax poetical about how grateful we are and how much we love each and every one, but I am on a character limit here. I promise now that I'm home I'm going to reblog them all to my tumblr and give you guys the praise you deserve! If you did fanart and you don't see it here, it means we probably didn't see it either!! Please leave a comment linking it to us because really genuinely the love and care you guys are putting in to creating things based on this fic is bringing me to tears daily and we want nothing more than to curl up around your art like dragons and treasure it forever.
> 
> As always, thank you to the amazing OsirisJones/SmallHorizons for doing beta and helping make this chapter what you see today.
> 
> See you all next Tuesday!!!


	28. Sickbeds and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets a like-minded individual.

“Breakfast in bed. Aren’t you pampered?”

Elias smoothes his hand through Jon’s hair as he sets the tray of food gently down on the bed. Scrambled eggs and orange slices. Jon reaches out and pushes at the still warm plate, inching it away from him. He doesn’t think he could swallow a mouthful at the moment.

“Still not hungry?” Elias _tsk_s unhappily and picks up the fork, spearing a few chunks of egg on the end. “That won’t do, Jon, you need your strength. You’re resilient, of course, but even a creature like you needs to heal.”

Elias holds the fork out, moving it in a tantalizing circle beneath Jon’s nose until his traitorous stomach lets out a high whine. Jon blushes just a bit, and drops his eyes shamefully to the side as he opens his mouth and lets Elias feed him. He can feel Elias’ eyes on him the whole time, intently watching, taking in the slide of Jon’s lips as he slowly pulls the fork back. He _knows_ those eyes. They’re the same eyes that were watching him writhing on the ground as the worms _burrowed_ into his flesh. Hungry. Desirous. _Pleased._

“Good boy,” Elias murmurs, soft and reverent. The smooth curve of an orange slice bumps into Jon’s lips and he opens obediently, letting Elias slip his fingers inside. He tastes like orange and lavender soap and salty skin. It would be _so easy_ to bite down, but where would that get him? Where has _any_ of this gotten him?

“I brought other forms of sustenance, of course,” Elias says as Jon chews through his orange slice, enjoying the way the juice bursts and burns on his tongue. He reaches down over the side of the bed and comes back with three, thick, tan file folders. He drops the statements in Jon’s lap and Jon can’t pull his eyes away from them. It’s only been a day and already he is _starving_ for them. A side effect of his injuries, perhaps. Just another chain to another master.

“All handpicked for nutritional value.” Elias leans in and presses a soft kiss to Jon’s temple. He frowns against Jon’s skin, nudging his nose into the thick, white bandages that obscure most of his cheek and neck. 

“What a shame this had to happen to your lovely skin,” he mumbles absentmindedly, as if the words were thoughts he didn’t mean to say aloud.

“I…” Jon’s voice cracks, his throat feels dry and sticky after not having spoken for nearly a day. His voice is still hoarse from screaming. He keeps his eyes down. “I will do my best in the future to not get maimed.”

“Oh, I’m not upset with _you,_ Jonathan,” Elias croons, tracing the constellation of bandages running up the side of his face. “No matter what scars you have, you will _always_ be mine.”

There are so many things Jon wants to say. _Why did you let her get in _or _why didn’t you come and save me sooner _or _I thought you loved me. You said you loved me._

But instead all he says is, “I want a phone.”

Elias looks genuinely taken aback. “You what?”

“I want a phone. I….I clearly _need_ to be able to call for help if I need it. And humans have phones. So _I_ should have one. I should have a phone.” Jon bunches his hands into tight fists, gripping the quilt draped over his legs.

“I see what this is about.” Elias leans back and narrows his eyes. “This is about _Martin._”

“What?” Jon can’t stop the panic in his eyes and Elias latches onto it, his voice sharp and quiet.

“This is about all those ideas he’s been filling your head with. Trying to poison you against me.”

“He’s _not—_”

“Telling you it’s wrong to spend time with your own _husband_.” Elias leans forward and Jon shrinks back into the mound of pillows propping him up. “Telling you that I’m _hurting_ you when I’ve done nothing but _protect _you. He doesn’t understand our world, Jon.”

“If you were spying on me, why didn’t you come?” Jon whines out, feeling all of yesterday’s tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, as if the time that had passed was nothing but a stopgap. A bandage over an unhealed wound.

“I figured you’d want your privacy.” Elias’ eyes are frozen rage, a winter storm he can't escape. “Falling into the arms of another man and all. I assumed I wasn’t _wanted_.”

Jon’s mouth moves but no words come out, the weight of Elias’ anger settling on the center of his chest and suffocating him. “Are you,” he chokes out finally. “Are you saying that it’s _my fault_ I got eaten by worms?”

“No, no, darling, never.” Elias reaches out and cups the side of Jon’s trembling face. “It’s all _his _fault. He brought them to you in the first place, after all.” 

“_Martin?_ I was the one who told _him_ to stay in the Archives.”

“You’re clever, Jon, but you’re hardly beyond being manipulated.” Elias’ hand slides down to the back of Jon’s neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive hairs at the nape. “You have _no idea_ the things that man is hiding. He’s _far_ from innocent.”

“N-no, that _can’t_ be, that’s not true,” Jon babbles as Elias draws him forward into an embrace. Jon buries his face in Elias’ shoulder, ignoring the painful throbbing of his wounds as he puts pressure on them. Elias winds his arms around and squeezes, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Jon’s spine.

“Do you know why he’s telling you all these things?” Elias whispers in Jon’s ear like a promise. “He’s _jealous. _I’ve seen the selfish, dark desires deep inside him, in his dreams, in his thoughts. He _wants _you.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, pressing in tighter to Elias. “It’d be better to be owned by _him._ He’s kind.” 

He would be lying if he said he hasn't fantasized about what it would be like if Martin held his skin instead of Elias. He can almost imagine the feel of Martin's fingers on his pelt, soft and warm, like a summer's day. He _wants_ his freedom, but if he has to be leashed...

“He’s _human._” Elias says the word like a curse. “You know better than I do that they’re all the same.”

“You’re one of them.”

“Unfortunately enough,” Elias agrees. “But I know _what_ you are. I know what you _need_. I know how to take care of you. You’re safe with me.”

Jon curls in until his head is tucked entirely beneath Elias’. “I didn’t _feel _safe.”

“I’m so sorry, pet.” Elias squeezes tighter. “There was nothing I could do. I can’t see into the tunnels, I didn’t know how to find you.”

Jon tries to remember his panicked flight through the twisting passageways below the institute with any clarity. He hadn’t been paying attention then, but now that he focuses, he realizes Elias is telling the truth. He didn’t feel the ever-present eyes pushing down on him while he was there. He was wholly and terrifyingly _cut off._

There is nothing left to do, except to slip his arms out from between their flush bodies and wrap them around Elias’ back. There is nothing left to say except, “I…It’s alright, Elias. I forgive you.”

“Thank you, beautiful.” They sit for a few moments longer, breathing each other in, entangled in their shared warmth. Finally, Elias exhales and pulls away, letting Jon settle back into his mound of pillows. 

“Read your statements now,” he says with a teasing strictness, tapping the folders on Jon’s lap meaningfully. Elias stands, takes the tray with its half eaten food, and settles it on the nightstand so that Jon can finish it later. “And let’s not talk with Mr. Blackwood anymore, hm?”

“We _do_ still work together,” Jon protests, half-heartedly.

“If having him nearby is such a distraction, I suppose he can be replaced. It’s inconvenient, but not outside my purview.”

Thoughts of frozen tupperware filled with cuts of flesh flood into Jon’s mind, and he recoils physically. “No. No, that _won’t_ be necessary. I’ll a-avoid him outside of important work-related discussions.”

“Good. He’s dangerous for you, Jonathan.”

“I understand,” Jon responds in a tiny voice. He drinks in the pride in Elias’ smile before picking up one of the statements in front of him and cracking it open. He’s desperate for it, to lose himself in the fear of _someone else._ Some stranger he’ll never meet. Some human who could live, could _die,_ and Jon would never care.

***

There is a sense of homecoming when Jon finally walks back into his Archives. He hadn’t realized how much he missed them until he felt the weight settling over his shoulders, pressing him down like a thick quilt. He has been gone for far too long. There is work to be done. He can be of use here.

“Jon!” Martin hurries up, his face alight and his arms overflowing with reference books. He looks just how Jon remembers him looking, broad and worried and radiating energy. “I didn’t realize you’d be back already! I thought you were taking the full month.”

“Yes, well,” Jon looks towards his office, trying to judge if he could slip away and close the door before Martin got in there with him. “Elias determined that I was perfectly well enough to simply sit at a desk and read. I’m already behind as it is.”

“I’ve been back two days, boss, it’s about time you showed up,” Tim calls from his desk where he sits, leaned all the way back in his chair so that the front two legs lift off the ground. “Things were dull without you around.”

“I mean,” Martin laughs nervously. “It’s just archival work. There’s no _real_ deadline. Things can wait on being sorted for a few days while you get all the worms out.”

“It’s important,” Jon snaps. He steels himself against the little tug of hurt that bunches between Martin’s eyebrows. “And the paramedics removed the worms before I even went home.”

“I….I know. I was just, I mean, I’m sorry.” Martin steps forward and looks as though he’d be reaching out to comfort Jon if his arms weren’t otherwise occupied. Jon doesn’t wait for him to shuffle the books around and free a hand, rushing the few long strides to his office and opening the door.

“Get back to work,” he says without turning around, before closing the door firmly behind him and sagging back against it. His muscles ache, his scars itch, and his stomach is rolling unhappily. He feels Elias watching him, watching Martin, just _waiting_ for an excuse. 

_Why is avoiding him so much harder than it should be?_

“Ouch,” Jon hears Tim say through the door.

“Oh hush, Tim. He’s going through a lot.”

“We all got eaten by worms, Marty. Didn’t turn us into dicks.”

“I dunno,” Martin snaps. “Maybe it did.”

Jon barely makes it through one statement before someone is knocking on his office door. He’d been working slowly, ignoring any kind of cross-referencing that might require him to go out and about in the Archives. He tells himself that he doesn’t _want_ to walk, and honestly his legs already _do_ feel like jelly from spending this long out of bed, but truthfully, he just doesn’t know how to face Martin yet. He can’t trust him, he _knows_ he can’t trust him, and even if he could he’d just be putting him in danger. Elias is a danger to everyone, and what is _Jon_ but an extension of Elias?

The knock comes again, quick and cheerful, and Jon knows it’s Martin. He wracks his brain for a reason to turn him away, but anything he can think of would only redouble Martin’s worrying. Finally he gives in with a sigh and invites Martin inside.

“I brought tea,” Martin chirps, closing the door firmly behind him so that he and Jon are alone. He turns and bustles over, setting the steaming cup in front of Jon and putting a napkin with two pills in it beside that. “I also brought some meds in case you’re still hurting. These are the ones Tim’s been using and he says it helps.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. He wraps a hand around the mug and lets the heat leech into his skin. It feels like bliss on his shaken nerves. “Is that all?”

“I, uh, I was hoping we could talk?”

“Do you have a question about your assignment?”

Martin furrows his brow. “N-no. I was hoping we could _actually_ talk. About _things_.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Thank you, Martin.” Jon looks back down at his papers in what he _hopes_ is a clear dismissal. He begs Martin silently to take the hint and just _leave him alone_. 

“Did Elias do something?” Martin asks in a hushed tone. The way his brow furrows in deep concern turns Jon’s stomach. 

“We’re not talking about Elias. _Thank you_, Martin.”

Martin steps in closer, laying a hand flat on Jon’s desk. “It’s okay, Jon, I promise, I’m here to help.”

_You have no idea the things that man is hiding._

“Funny,” Jon snaps his teeth around the word. “Considering you haven’t even done the one thing I _asked_ you to.”

He feels Martin bristle. “Maybe if you let me talk to you for three seconds you’d know that I _did_.”

Jon snaps his head up, hands trembling just a bit with barely contained energy. “You did?”

Martin frowns and ducks his head apologetically. “I couldn’t find it. I’m so sorry, Jon. If he has your coat, he doesn’t keep it in his office, I looked everywhere.”

“_If_ he has my coat?” Jon slams his hands against his desk and pushes himself to his feet. “Of course he has my coat!”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Where else could it be except his office, Martin?”

“I don’t know!” Martin throws his arms out the side and Jon’s eyes flick instantly to track the movement. “It could be anywhere!”

Jon screws his face up and wraps his arms tight around his body. “Then why are you pretending you can help when you _know_ it’s hopeless.”

“Because I’m your _friend_.”

“_You’re_ the one who decided that. Not me.” Jon forcibly holds himself back from facing up towards the ceiling where he can _feel_ Elias’ eyes boring down on him. He can’t _escape_ them.

“Right.” Martin’s voice quavers and Jon is too much of a coward to look up at him. “I suppose I’ll just go then. Enjoy your tea, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t look up until he hears the click of the door closing behind Martin. He feels like an old rag that’s been wrung out. Twisted and spent. By the time he remembers to reach for the mug on his desk, the tea has already gone cold. 

Jon doesn’t get any work done that morning. He slumps on the floor of his office, pressed up against the inside of his door, listening to the scattered chattering of his assistants. They feel so impossibly far away. He waits until they start stirring for their lunch break, gathering their coats and heading away up the stairs.

They know better by this point than to invite Jon.

After things have been silent for a few minutes, Jon grabs the handle of his door and lets himself out into the Archives proper. He glances about, but no one is around, the assistants tend to all take their midday break together. Jon doesn’t envy them. Spending time with people just means more of a chance to get _caught._

Even though he’s alone, Jon still takes his time to creep over silently to Martin’s desk, afraid of disturbing anything. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, the idea that Martin would have taken his skin and hidden it in his _desk_ of all places seems _beyond_ ridiculous. But what else can Jon do? What else does he _have?_

A crumpled piece of paper in the bin catches the corner of his eye. He has no idea what is drawing him towards it, but before he can even consider it he has it in his hand. Maybe it’s something in how violently it was smashed into a ball. Maybe it’s the Unblinking in him being drawn towards knowledge.

He sits on the floor, cross-legged, smoothing out the wrinkled paper. He recognizes Martin’s swooping handwriting immediately. There is no doubt it is his. It seems to be an unfinished letter, addressed to his mother, detailing the mundanities of his life and career. Nothing of any interest. Until he reaches the end.

_...If the others find out I’ve been lying..._

Lying. Just like Elias said. Jon can hardly think over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Martin is _lying_. But about what? And to who? And for what purpose? Elias’ words echo in his brain and his breath comes fast and panicked. _He wants you he wants you he wants you—_

“Hello, Jon.” 

Jon screams and jumps in surprise, scrambling guiltily to his feet. Sasha is standing in front of him, smiling calmly as if she didn’t just catch her boss rifling through a coworker’s trash. 

“Ah,” he squeaks, trying to calm himself down. “H-hello, Sasha. I’m sorry about that. This is… this _isn’t_ what it looks like.”

Sasha tilts her head to the side, her ponytail swaying behind her. “That’s alright, Jon. I don’t mind a little screaming.”

“Did you need something?” Jon runs a hand through his hair, feeling the exhaustion starting to weigh on him.

“I just wanted to look at you.” Sasha takes a step in closer and Jon instinctively steps backward as she lays a hand on his chest. He breathes in and panic shoots like fire down his spine. Something is _wrong. _ She smells like sawdust and _mildew_ beneath her vanilla-scented perfume. She looks like Sasha, she sounds like Sasha, but this is _not_ a human. It _can’t_ be.

“You’re just as pretty as I thought you’d be,” the thing that is not Sasha says as it rubs its hand up and down his chest. “Nothing is more beautiful than a body without a skin.”

“What are you?” Jon asks, fear simmering low beneath his defensiveness. He rolls his lips back to show his teeth. The creature merely smiles demurely. It is far worse than any snap or snarl.

“I’m the same as you are, selkie. Just one thing hiding beneath the skin of another.”

Jon tears his eyes away from the creature to glance over its shoulder, but he doesn’t see Martin or Tim anywhere.

“Where are the others?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Archivist, they’re still out on their little lunch run. I came back early to give us time to talk in private.” The thing wearing Sasha’s face walks its fingers slowly up Jon’s chest. “Monster to monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Happy Tuesday!!! It's Fly again, two weeks in a row, here to say thank you to you guys, our incredible fans, who broke our comment record yet again!!! Last week's chapter had nearly 50 comments and we're both so overwhelmed and grateful! In addition to that we had two _amazing_ new pieces of fanart that you can check out here!!!
> 
> https://jam-boy.tumblr.com/post/611961681821745152/ive-been-wanting-to-draw-for-the-fic-what
> 
> https://gertruderobinsonscat.tumblr.com/post/611620771432988672/even-more-selkiejon-this-is-au-art-of-an-au
> 
> If you drew art that we haven't linked here, it's because we haven't seen it! But we super duper want to, so please leave a comment linking us so that we can enjoy your incredible work! You are all so insanely talented. How. You're adding years to my life.
> 
> As usual, thank you to smallhorizons/OsirisJones for doing beta on this chapter, and NOT as usual, Jess happened to meet some wbtts fans out roaming in the wild face to face! So a special shout out to all our fans in the middle of nowhere Canada, especially the ones who work in comic book shops and the ones who are dating ones who work in comic book shops. She loved meeting you so much!!!
> 
> See you next Tuesday!


	29. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of flesh and favors.

“So. Do you actually go by _Jonathan?_ Awful plain for you, don’t you think?” Jon tracks the long swaying end of the Sasha creature’s ponytail as he walks behind it warily. He could _hope_ that Elias will come help him, but it feels rather like hoping that a hammer slamming over and over into your fingers will rust and shatter.

“It’s my name.” Short, to the point answers seem safest. He holds his arms tightly coiled to his sides, ready to spring into action if need be. He still doesn’t know what it _wants._ He still doesn’t know what it _is._

“So horribly _human_. What about your mother?” Jon hates the lilting music of its voice, as if they are playing some kind of game.

“Cordelia.” Jon tightens his jaw until he feels his teeth grinding. “But she was named by my human grandfather. My grandmother is called Marilla.”

“Mmm, now that’s a proper _name_!” The creature turns around and leans back against the door it’s been leading him to with an exaggerated sigh. He looks over its head at the glint of bronze plaque affixed to the door. _Artefact Storage_. “There’s little I like more than a name with a real _feeling _behind it. Nothing so ten a penny as _Jonathan Sims_. Or,” it lifts a hand to its mouth in an exaggerated apology, “is it Bouchard, now?”

Jon takes a fistful of the fabric of his trousers and squeezes. “You seem to have me at quite the disadvantage. Five names must be worth the price of one.”

“Ugh, you Eye types and your _difficult questions_.” The creature lolls its head back against the door behind it and brings one hand up to toy with the handle. “Can’t you just call me Sasha? It’s more accurate than anything else.”

“But you’re _not_ Sasha,” Jon snaps, and the creature brings its pretty face up to grin at him.

“Oh? You’re so sure?”

“You…” Jon takes a step back as the Sasha thing pushes herself off the door and steps towards him. “You don’t _smell_ like her.” 

“So how many layers of perfumes does your Elias have to put on before you aren’t enslaved to him anymore?” The creature winds its thick ponytail around its finger over and over, the hair flipping out around the bottom. “You ought to be more _thoughtful_ about what you define as an intrinsic part of the self.”

“Are you trying to convince me that you’re the same Sasha James that was _always_ working here?” 

“What I’m saying, _Archivist_, is have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus?” It laughs, high and twinkling. “Take a man’s skin, take his freedom, take his will, take his mannerisms, take his _teeth_.” 

The creature presses a finger to Jon’s lips and he shudders, deep at the base of his spine. “When do you _stop_ being the same Jonathan that crawled out of the sea?”

The creature pulls its finger down, toying with Jon’s bottom lip, twisting it one way and then the other. It smiles with a wide row of perfect white teeth and Jon knows that this is _not_ Sasha, but he cannot remember her ever having another smile. She turns away and, with one smooth motion, throws open the door to Artefact Storage and marches inside. 

The doorway stands open before him, dim and uninviting, and Jon hesitates. He feels that tugging in his chest that has almost sunk into the background noise of his life, the pull towards the unknown, the part of him that can _feel_ the potential in that room just waiting to be seen and catalogued. He hears the archivist before him, remembers her standing there not so long ago, warning him away. Telling him _never_ to go inside that room. He can’t imagine what could possibly be so bad, waiting in there for him. Surely it can’t be _worse_ than the monster he is following. Surely it can’t be worse than the fate he’s subjected to every day he spends on land.

He follows, not sure what part of him takes that first step. He gulps in the cool, heavy air of Artefact Storage, trying fruitlessly to steady himself. Standing in this room is nothing like the Archives, with their heavy, welcoming weight. In here it feels like drowning in unfamiliar water, the pressure of everything just at the edge of his senses pushing in to overwhelm him.

The room is poorly lit and packed with shelves littered with books and small objects. Each is eye-catching in its own way, pulling at his attention, but Jon ignores them and follows the creature that is not Sasha deeper. 

Small objects give way to bigger ones, chairs and tables and chests. He runs his fingers along the candy red, lacquered side of a calliope as he walks past. Every object is neatly labeled, a beige tag affixed or hanging from the shelf beneath showing acquisition details and known effects. More than once Jon sees the name _Salesa _cutting into the corner of his eyes like salt in an open wound. Ahead of him, the creature is humming, and Jon clings to the noise, following it like a tether. He _can’t_ lose his focus. Not with that thing around.

_—Jonathan Bouchard—_

Jon stops mid-step as his subconscious latches onto his own name written on a tag. He turns and stares, horrified, at the tiny box sitting on the shelf. It is layered with a thousand criss-crossing lines in an endless mesmerizing pattern. But beneath it all, Jon can see the solution, the resolution, and if he can just work on it...if he could just _have some time_—

“Jonathan?”

Jon snaps his head to the side, the box’s spell suddenly broken. He is almost surprised to find his heart pounding in his chest. He’d felt so calm when he was staring at the box, only moments before. Sasha’s eyes follow the line of his outstretched arm and then look back at him, and Sasha’s mouth smiles in a soft, sympathetic way.

“Can I tell you a story, Jonathan?”

Jon says nothing. The creature turns away from him and smooths its hands almost lovingly along a table with a nauseatingly familiar criss-crossing pattern etched into its surface. With one smooth, graceful movement, it pops itself up onto the table and folds one long leg over the other. There is something profoundly _unsettling_ in the perfection of its posture. 

It pats the space beside it on the table invitingly, and Jon takes a step back, folding his arms tight over his chest. The creature smiles again. _Sasha’s_ smile. 

“Once upon a time,” it says, “there was a monster. It used to be free to roam and feast and _live_ as it wanted. It was so happy, enjoying its life! But then, one day, an awful man caught it and _trapped_ it and instead of simply keeping it for himself, he gave it away. That poor monster, it thought, how much _worse_ can it get?”

The thing with Sasha’s face reaches out a hand towards Jon. Each word lands like a barb tearing the skin away from his flesh.

“But you know now, don’t you, Jon.” The creature’s tone drops, darkly serious. “It can _always_ get worse. And it got worse, and it got _worse_, cruelty piling upon cruelty—"

"_Stop_." Jon can’t listen anymore. Hasn’t living it been enough? “I get it. I know the story. Just tell me what you _want_ from me.” 

The creature stops, mouth still hanging open as it blinks at Jon, far too human in its confusion. Then it snorts and tips its head forward to giggle in barefaced amusement.

“Oh, selkie,” it says. “That story wasn’t about _you_.”

The creature pushes itself off the table and steps towards Jon, closing the space between them far too fast. He stands stock-still, barely breathing as it circles slowly around him, dragging the tips of its fingers along the small of his back.

“You understand, don’t you, Jonathan? You and I, we are bonded brothers in the fire of humanity’s callous nature. We are _light_ sewn to _shadows_.”

From the corner of Jon’s eye, the creature seems momentarily taller, stranger, too loose in its shape. Jon shudders and closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself. 

_"What do you want from me?_" His question comes out angry, laced with a buzzing, _hissing_ power. It feels overwhelming, echoing through his chest and leaving him dizzy, but there is a heady flavor to it, like the first taste of flesh from a successful hunt.

“I want your _power._” The words tumble from the creature too fast. “You must see it. That we are the same. We deserve to be _free_.”

“Pretty words,” Jon snaps.

“More than words.” The creature steps around until they are face to face and Jon is staring into its distant, longing eyes. “Let’s kill them. All of them. Let’s break our shackles and peel their vocal cords out like licorice.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” Jon spits the words. “If I could I would have torn Elias to pieces _ages_ ago.”

“No, you can’t, oh no, you can’t, poor little marionette, bound up in your strings.” The creature pets a hand down Jon’s chest, but he doesn’t move. “But _I_ could. If you break my table, I can kill anyone you want me to.”

All the breath kicks out of Jon’s lungs. _It could_. It could kill Elias for him.

He _wants it. _Of course he does, of course he wants it. Getting free of Elias? It was all he’d wanted every day since he washed up on that beach. But something in him stutters over the thought of Elias _dying_. It’s...it’s impossible. His bright eyes going dull and empty, his skin cold and gray. Jon feels his breath start to tighten in panic as he pictures it. A world without Elias. With Elias _dead_. Whose would he be? What would he do? His wedding band feels heavy around his finger, an anchor dragging him down.

The creature tuts, disappointed. "And here I thought you were better than the tamed _dog _that sits stupidly in an unlocked cage."

“N-no, that’s not,” Jon babbles, unable to collect his thoughts as they break like the foaming surf. “M-my skin. My skin. He still has it and I don’t know where he’s keeping it. Even if we killed him I’d be just as trapped as before. But this time with _no one. _I can’t, I can’t, I couldn’t… not until I _find_ it…”

The thing with Sasha’s face pushes Jon contemptuously and he stumbles a few steps backwards, eyes burning with shame and the start of panicky tears that he desperately tries to hold back.

“Are you even _listening_ to yourself, Jon? You sound like a child missing his blankie.”

Jon looks up. “What? I—” 

“Genuine question.” The creature holds up its hands innocently, and Jon can see the laughter straining to escape as it struggles to be serious. “Do you think it’s _sad _that after all this time, after all these _faces,”_ the creature pulls goofily at the soft flesh of its cheek and for a moment it almost seems to stretch much too far, “the only name I _can’t_ remember is my own?”

“What?” Jon stares at it, quietly horrified. “Yes. Yesof course.”

"Here’s a secret.” The creature gives an exaggerated wink. “You don’t _need_ it."

All the air is knocked from Jon’s lungs. _"What?"_

"I said, you don’t need your skin back, selkie boy. You look marvelous without it. All it's doing for you right now is _holding you back_." Its eyes are glittering with a sinister curiosity that reminds him too much of Elias. It spreads its arms out wide to the sides. “You could join _us_.”

Jon grips the arms of his sweater until his knuckles go white.

“Or what, you wait around twiddling your lil’ thumbs waiting to grow a _new _one like in the stories?” The thing with Sasha’s face laughs with Sasha’s laugh. Jon had heard those stories, about selkies desperate enough to try and grow a new skin from their own flesh. He _still_ has the nightmares.

“No,” Jon croaks. “No, I’ll find it. _My_ skin. I’ll find it and I’ll take it _back_.”

“Maaaybe that would work,” the creature says, drawing the syllables out in a teasing sing-song. “If you had the time to _spare_, is all.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Did your _Elias _ever tell you not to come in here?” The creature drags Elias’ name into a smirk. It bobs lightly on its feet as it turns away and half-skips over to a nearby shelf.

“No, but—”

“Did you ever wonder what you weren’t supposed to find?”

_Not the salvation I’m looking for_.

The scraping of the metal box the creature pulls off the shelf cuts through the silence like a boulder tumbling into a pond. It turns back to him with a grin that is far too cheerful. Triumphant. He cannot help but flinch as the latch snaps open.

The Sasha creature holds the iron shackles out in front of it like a present. Jon can’t stop the pained and frightened whine that slips from his mouth as he staggers a few steps back until his back hits painfully into another shelf. Jon can feel the weight and _burn_ of the shackles that bound his mother as if they had wrapped around his own flesh. The memory of agony creeps in like a ghost and he bites his lip bloody to keep himself from shaking.

"Look at these,” the monster says, advancing on Jon with a wide grin. “I wonder what Elias has planned for you? He’s awfully prepared. At least he isn't keeping them at home yet, _right? _ Just near enough to where you work. An easy solution in case you _dare_ step out of line."

Jon tries to pull back further as it takes one more step forward, holding them out, but he is already flattened back against the shelves as far as he can get. He can feel the weight of them already, burning against his flesh. It stops, a few feet short, and tilts its head. It's almost like it's trying to look kind, but failing miserably.

Where would Elias lock him up? In the bathroom again? In his Archives? Where Elias can still make use of him. Would he even still be his husband? Collared and bound, Jon would be forced to confront what has _always_ been true. He’s just a pet. Just a _thing._ Just another pretty thing Elias has purchased, just like the artifacts lining the shelves all around him. 

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and feels the power humming through his throat again. "_What else do you want from me_?"

“Oh, just your lovely assistant.” The creature runs its tongue along the bottom of its teeth slowly. “I have had my eye on him for a _while_.”

Jon straightens up immediately, leaning forward towards the monster with a snarl. “_You stay away from Martin_.”

The thing laughs, clutching the iron chains to its chest as it gasps for breath. “Oh no, Jon. Not Martin. _Timothy_.”

“Tim?” Jon blinks a few times. “Did he do something to you?”

“What does it matter? He’s human.” The creature jabs the shackles at him. “Do you want to wind up chained at your master’s feet, writhing in pain, selkie boy? Do you want to never see the ocean ever again? You know it in your salt-soaked bones. My offer is the only chance you have. Free me and let me free you.”

Jon stares at her, then drops his gaze. He gnaws on his lip. He doesn’t even _know_ Tim. They’ve barely spoken. And he’s listened through his door plenty of days to the way Tim speaks about him. He’s human. He doesn’t care.

“Wouldn’t it be delicious,” the creature says, dreamily, “the face of his best friend and the face of his boss coming together to peel the skin from him. He would feel so _confused _and _betrayed_. We could leave his eyes there for you, of course, Archivist. Let him _watch_.” 

Jon stares at the chains in the monster’s hand. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of Tim. Tim smiling, asking him out to lunch, for a walk, simply because he looked upset. Tim who had no idea what he was getting himself into. 

“No.”

“No?” The monster draws back a step, Sasha’s pretty mouth twisting oddly.

Jon looks up with a glare, his jaw set firm. “I said _no._ I _won’t_ help you.”

“_What?_” The creature shrieks, face contorting in rage. “Why not? Don’t I deserve to be free?”

“I don’t know.” Jon very slowly slides his hand back behind him, groping around the shelf for something to defend himself with. “But I _won’t_ let you do this.”

“_We’re the same,_” it hisses. “You and me. Mirror images. You think you’re better than me? You’re _nothing!_”

Jon swallows. “I know.”

“Fine. Don’t agree. There’s more than one way to _skin_ a _selkie._” The thing that is not Sasha raises the iron chains and lunges towards Jon. The metal hits the skin of his wrist and _burns_. 

Jon’s fingers close around familiar sharp corners. “Look!” In one swift motion he pulls the box out from behind his back and shoves it into the monster’s face. He cannot see the criss-crossing lines from this angle, but he recognizes with nauseating certainty the dead glossy emptiness of Sasha’s eyes. The iron shackles clatter to the floor as its hand goes limp and drops them. 

It reaches out its hands and takes the puzzle box. 

The thing is quiet, unnaturally still and puppet-like, as it works on the box. It's horrifying to be on this end of it, seeing a mirror of what he was no doubt like when he had his own pelt stolen. But this won’t hold it forever. It is just a stopgap. This _creature_ is in his Institute. It took one assistant. He will _not_ let it take another.

He goes for the _throat._

Every savage instinct and hunger he's been suppressing rises to the surface as he closes his teeth around Sasha’s throat and _tugs_. He rips at the odd, rubbery flesh with dulled teeth and half grown claws, ripping open holes that slowly bleed sand and sawdust onto the floor. It tastes like nothing but dust and plastic and old, dry blood. 

He tastes salt as the tears roll down his face and mingle with the sawdust in his mouth.

“—making out in here—” 

The door swings open and Tim’s voice stops dead. Jon looks up from where he sits, hunched over Sasha’s corpse, and stares in horror at Tim and Martin bunched together in the entrance to Artefact Storage. Martin’s round eyes are wide and shaking. So pale. Frightened. Of _him._

“Oh _Christ_.” Tim’s legs are shaking beneath him. He grabs something off the shelf beside him, something metal that looks heavy enough to bludgeon someone. He raises it at Jon. “You’re a _monster_.”

Martin drops a heavy hand on Tim’s arm, pushing it down.

“No,” he says. “Not a monster. A selkie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is allowed little a flesh as a treat ;)
> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos this week! It's been lovely to see just how big the readership has gotten week by week! 
> 
> I wanna thank OsirisJones/smallhorizons for betaing this week, and Mugatu for the new art this week! Seriously, you two are wonderful. Thank you 💜
> 
> [Link to where they're collected!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/55072969)
> 
> (Some of the pieces, as marked, will be nsfw and of a higher rating than this fic. Canon and/or AU of this AU. Step as you will.)


	30. Myths and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some secrets come to light in the darkness.

Jon _runs_.

Martin wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t his boss rolling off the slowly deflating corpse of his coworker (oh god _Sasha_, oh god what did he do—) and scrambling on all fours past Martin and Tim and out the door of Artefact Storage. It all happens so fast, Martin doesn’t even _think_ to move to stop him until he’s gone.

“What the _fuck_.” Tim’s trembling voice snaps Martin’s head back forward. He’s already kneeling beside Sasha’s corpse (oh god Sasha, did Jon really, could Jon really have, and why _would_ he—) and reaching for the torn edges of her throat. “What the fuck, what the _fuck_. What is going on here?”

Tim’s voice slowly grows more hysterical as he turns around to face Martin and holds out a hand. It’s full of ash or soot or _something_ that drifts down to the floor as it tumbles over the edges of Tim’s shaking hands.

“What is _happening?_” 

Martin can hear the tears closing up Tim’s throat and he instinctively wants to go to him, hold his hands and tell him it’ll be _alright_, or maybe break down himself, cry or vomit or do anything other than stare at the horrific sight in front of him, but he can’t. Not yet.

“We _have_ to go find Jon,” he says, doing his best to suppress the panic he can feel threatening to break him. Tim stares at him wide-eyed, lost. 

“_What?_”

“We need to talk to him, w-we need to make sure he’s alright.” Martin turns around to look at the doorway. Every second they delay, Jon gets further away. 

“Make sure _he’s _alright?” Tim spits the words and scrambles to his feet. “He just fucking _murdered _someone, Martin. He killed _Sasha_.”

“We don’t _know_ that,” Martin says, glancing back at Tim, still torn. He bounces anxiously on the balls of his feet, curling and uncurling his hands into fists. He should be _moving_. He should be moving _right now_. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

“Seems pretty clear cut to me,” Tim snarls, red faced and teeth bared. “I work here for years and _nothing _and then he shows up and now we’ve got… we’ve got _worms _and Sasha’s _dead_ and whatever the _fuck_ happened to Gertrude and...”

“There’s other _factors_, Tim—”

Tim takes a step forward, aggressively. Martin refuses to back down, refuses to flinch. “I knew you were a _sap_, Martin but even you can’t seriously be trying to go all love and friendship over a literal _monster_. Or are you just _that desperate_ for a fuck?”

“Could you not be a prick for _three seconds_ and _listen_ to me?” Martin throws out a hand towards Sasha’s body. It lays limp, a puppet with cut strings. It makes Martin's skin _crawl_. “When was the last time you saw someone bleeding _wood shavings_?”

Tim’s face screws up tight. He glances down at Sasha and wobbles for a second, unsteadily. Martin takes a step closer to him, softening his voice. He reaches out towards Tim, but doesn’t touch.

“There’s _something_ going on here. And Jon is just as caught up in it as we are. If you want to find out what happened to Sasha, what _really_ happened to Sasha, then actually talking to him is your best bet.” Tim meets Martin’s gaze, and Martin can already tell he’s going to agree. Like watching cracks spread through glass. Tim needs to know as much as he does.

“Fine.” Tim walks over to a shelf and pulls down a long metal pipe that’s simply there, unattached to anything. The pipe makes a solid, weighty thump when he hits it against his open palm. “But I’m not going to meet that _thing_ undefended.”

“He’s still a _person_, Tim,” Martin pleads.

Tim snorts, swinging the metal pipe up to rest on his shoulder as he strides out of the room. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

When they step out into the hallway, the first thing they see is the trapdoor down to the tunnels sitting _wide_ open. Martin has no doubt where Jon has gone. It’s the only place to really hide in the Institute. He could have locked himself in his office, but, well, that’s only a _temporary_ solution at best. He’d have to come out _eventually_. The tunnels on the other hand, well, Martin wouldn’t be surprised if those tiny, twisting passageways went on forever. Sometimes he imagines them, dark and cramped, spider webbing their way beneath the entire city, full of secret entrances and cracks for worms to squirm into.

He doesn’t want to go down there. 

“I _carried_ him,” Tim mutters beside him. Martin can feel Tim’s bitter rage mirroring his own regret. “I got eaten by _worms _because of him.”

“Come on,” Martin says and takes the lead as he heads down the steps into the darkness of the tunnels. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips on the torch, aiming it down so he can see where he’s walking. Behind him, he hears the sound of flesh on metal as Tim grips the pipe tighter. _That_, of all things, makes the hair on Martin’s arms stand on end.

Luckily, Jon hasn’t gone _too_ far. They find him after only a few minutes of walking, curled up into a tiny ball in a corner of the hallway. His head is tucked down deep between his legs—his arms wrapped over top of it—and his entire body is trembling violently. Jon’s fear practically spills into the air around him, and Martin's heart clenches painfully. He looks so _small_. 

Martin takes a step forward, reaching out to comfort him, but he doesn’t get a chance to do _anything_ before Tim shoulders in front of him, planting himself between Martin and Jon and brandishing his weapon.

“Get up,” he snaps and Jon’s entire body jumps as he uncurls and flattens himself back against the wall behind him. The tears gleam on his cheeks, and his pupils are blown wide, more animal than human.

"Tim." Martin says, his voice soft, but his tone as sharp as a knife. He sounds like his mother.

“I’m sorry,” Jon babbles out immediately, shrinking back as if he could make himself disappear into the wall. He frantically glances left and right as if he’s planning to run again, before his eyes focus back on the pipe. He clutches his wrist, digging his nails into the skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ I’m sorry_.”

“Tim, is this _really_ necessary?” Martin tries to keep his voice calm, steady. He does his best to slide his way in between them to de-escalate the situation, but Tim won't budge, and Martin bumps up helplessly against his shoulder. 

“Do you want to end up like Sasha, Martin? Or how about Gertrude?” Tim’s voice is teetering on the edge of violence, but beneath it, Martin can hear the fear. A fear of Jon. A fear of losing even more than he’s already lost.

“Gertrude was _shot_, Tim.” Martin puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder and pulls him back gently. He tries to move slowly for Jon’s sake, the poor man seems about ready to curl up into a ball again, or worse, bolt.

“She was _shot_ and then had pieces of her _torn off_.” Tim sticks the pipe out and taps the end into the center of Jon’s chest. Jon lets out a low inhuman whine, trying to press even deeper into the wall. “Sounds like the work of some flesh-eating _monster_.”

“Jon wouldn’t…” Martin trails off as he catches the gleam of guilt that passes through Jon’s eyes, reflecting back in the light of his torch. He feels a roll of nausea sink straight to his stomach. He still dreams of it every night, the slack jaw, the empty eyes like marbles, the gaping holes ringed in blood so old and dirty it had gone black. “You _wouldn’t_, right Jon?”

Jon turns his head aside, pressing his cheek into the stone behind him. He sounds _ashamed_, voice hardly even a whisper. “I… I didn’t realize. I wouldn’t have… I didn’t _know_.”

“You sick _fuck_.” Tim grabs the pipe hard with both hands and lifts it high over his head. Jon quakes. 

“But I _didn’t_ kill her, I swear I didn’t, _I didn’t kill her_.” Jon holds his hands up and cowers beneath them. His gaze flicks between Tim and Martin, pleading for mercy. 

“Bull_shit_,” Tim snarls, and Martin grabs Tim’s arm before he does anything rash.

“If you didn’t kill her, who did, Jon? Who fed her to you?” Martin knows even before he finishes asking, but he _needs_ to hear it. He needs Jon to say it.

Jon peeks up through his hands, his whole body trembling as he flicks his eyes up to the ceiling and then back to Tim. “I… I think it was _Elias_.”

Martin’s grip loosens on Tim’s arm as he stares down at Jon, reading the abject misery in his hunched back and the bags beneath his eyes.

“Well that’s just _perfect_,” Tim spits and Jon flinches away from his words. His eyes are still glued to the pipe. “Our bosses are a power couple of murder monsters. He kills ‘em, you eat ‘em, is that right?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“What about _Sasha_?” The end of the pipe starts shaking as Tim’s grip gets tighter and tighter. “Figured you’d take things into your own hands? Did you get a little _peckish_?”

“That wasn’t Sasha, was it.” The words aren’t even a question by the time they leave Martin’s mouth. Jon looks over to him and shakes his head morosely, closing his eyes and hanging his head. Martin's heart hurts and he doesn’t know if it’s for Sasha or Jon or both. He feels like a pen that’s running out of ink. Just scratching over the page leaving nothing behind.

“It… it was some kind of shapeshifter. I don’t know what happened to the real Sasha, Tim. I’m so sorry.” Jon sounds as upset as Tim looks.

“Don’t call me Tim like we’re _friends_.” As Tim raises his hands a little higher, Jon curls back into the corner in panic, tucking his head beneath his arms and choking out a little sob. Martin can’t take another second of watching Jon’s trembling shoulder blades. He just _can’t_. Murderer or not, this is wrong. It’s just Jon. They _know_ Jon.

Martin doesn’t often leverage his stature to his advantage, but he has a good half a foot on Tim and at least a couple dozen pounds and he can easily force his way past and crouch down beside Jon. He situates his bulk between Tim’s weapon and Jon’s fragile form and lays a hand flat on the middle of Jon’s back. Jon’s muscles instinctively _jump_ at the touch but then he relaxes, turning his face to press it into Martin’s knees.

“You got your answers,” Martin says, looking up at Tim with a sharp warning in his eyes. “How about you leave off a bit?”

“Answers?” Tim throws a hand out to the side. “You’re just going to believe the words of the man we found with his _teeth_ in Sasha’s neck?” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon moans out piteously against the fabric of Martin’s slacks. Martin pushes him closer, thumb instinctively rubbing in gentle, calming circles against Jon’s back.

“He didn’t _want_ this any more than _us_. It’s not his fault.” Holding Jon in his hands like this, it’s impossible to believe he could be a killer. He’s so fragile. Martin hadn’t exactly pictured Elias as a murderer, but after everything he’s probably done to Jon, well. It’s not exactly _far fetched._

“Oh is that so? Last I checked, he was pretty happily married to someone he _clearly knows_ is a murderer.” 

Martin can feel the way Jon goes even tenser. He's not sure if it's fear, guilt, or some awful, tangled web of emotions.

“And when did you last check?” Martin snaps, enough acid in his tone that even Tim seems a bit taken aback. “Was it while you were _making fun_ of him, or was it while you were _ignoring_ how he flinched when anyone got close to him?”

“This isn’t _about _him!” Tim stomps his foot and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Sasha is _dead_.”

“And Jon is _alive_. And he needs our _help_.”

“No.” Tim lowers the pipe as his arms start shaking too much to hold it up. His glare deepens, teeth clenched against the tears starting to pool in the corners of his eyes. “Fuck _him_. And fuck _you_. Fuck all of this. You can’t expect me to help some monster just because it _cries._ What about me? When do _I_ get to cry?”

“It’s _Jon_, Tim. Our Jon.” Martin wants to reach out to Tim, but he can’t pull himself away from Jon who is resting half his weight on Martin’s lap. “We know him.”

The tears start rolling down Tim’s face, catching on the edges of his snarl. “Yeah, well apparently _our Sasha_ was a monster too.”

“That’s different,” Martin says softly. “We know what Jon is. What he’s _always_ been, ever since we met him.”

Jon pushes himself up off Martin’s lap and Martin lets his hand slide off to drop back by his side. Jon’s deep, dark eyes are ringed in red and damp with tears that are sliding shiny down the curve of his cheeks. His usually neatly combed hair has escaped its bounds and is making wild, wavy curls in every direction as it tumbles to the bottom of his chin. It was so short when Martin first met him, it’s hard to believe sometimes how long it’s been since that day in the library when he first laid eyes on him. He’s just as impossibly beautiful _now_ as he was then. But now, Martin supposes, he understands _why_ a bit more.

“How did you know?” Jon asks, and Martin wants to say _because I was always watching you. Because when you look close you can see that the black of your eyes is just a slightly slitted pupil. Because I love your smile, and there are teeth in there no human has. Because you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you. Since the moment we met I haven’t been able to tear my eyes away._

But instead he says, “I read a book.”

“What?” Jon scrubs a hand over his nose, rubbing at the tears and snot. Martin is glad to see the beginnings of something other than fear in his gaze. 

“In the library. Well, a manuscript, really, all about selkies. And I overheard some things. You asked me to help you find your skin which was really _very_ suspicious. And I might have,” Martin takes in a breath and then bulls onward, “I might have read a statement about you. I found it in your desk after you’d left for the night. Sorry.”

“I think it’s about time he tells us the truth _himself_.” Tim says, and Martin turns around quickly, grateful for the dim lighting probably hiding the blush on his cheeks. He’d almost forgotten Tim was here. Jon’s eyes are treacherous, like quicksand. 

“Is that okay?” Martin asks, looking back at Jon. Jon nods and braces a hand against the wall beside him. Martin reaches out and lets Jon use him as a support to push himself slowly to his feet.

“I...” Jon closes his eyes and curls his hands into fists. It still takes a moment for him to speak. “I’m not _human_. I’m a selkie.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much.” Martin glares at Tim until he closes his mouth, screwing it up into an impatient frown. Martin has just about had enough of Tim's tone, especially now that Jon is finally sounds steadier.

“I grew up in the ocean, with my grandmother. Usually I can change back and forth between looking like this,” Jon sweeps a hand down to encompass the entirety of his body, “and being a seal. But to _do_ that, I need my pelt. And I don’t _have _it. Because Elias has stolen and hidden it from me.”

“So you married him?” Tim’s voice is dry and empty of his usual humor. Martin can see the way Jon's eyes grow old and tired in an instant. “_Excellent_ taste.”

Jon shifts uncomfortably, curling a little into himself, and Martin can’t stop himself from reaching out and encompassing one of Jon’s hands entirely within his own. For a second he panics, cursing himself for never thinking his actions through, but then Jon relaxes and looks over at him gratefully and all the dark corners of his heart are flooded with light. 

“For a selkie, the holder of our skin is… irresistable. I am always drawn back to him, I can’t _leave_ him, I can’t disobey him, I can’t _hurt_ him. Technically, we were married from the _moment_ he possessed it. The human wedding was,” Jon twists the golden ring around and around on his finger. “A… a show of devotion.”

Martin hates the needling, hopeful desperation in those last words. 

“You just carry around your biggest weak point all the time?” Tim scoffs, but Jon doesn't react badly. Instead, he smiles a grim, humorless smile. 

“I know. A, uh, a _glaring design flaw_, isn’t it.”

“This _isn’t_ your fault.” Jon looks over at Martin with such a barefaced shock that it breaks Martin’s heart all over again. He squeezes Jon's hand. “Having a vulnerability doesn’t make it _your fault_ when you get hurt. Any person who would want to _forcibly marry_ an unwilling partner is _sick_, and that’s on them. Not _you_.”

“R-right,” Jon says, still staring wide-eyed at Martin as if no one has ever told him that before. Maybe no one _has_.

“Don’t get distracted,” Tim says, resting a hand on his hip and narrowing his eyes. “It’s a big leap from pervert to murderer. Why would Elias kill Gertrude except to feed his _pet husband._”

“Elias loves me,” Jon says and his hand tenses in Martin’s. “I… I _know_ he does. He likes having a husband he can control. He likes that I’m a _curiosity_, that I’m unique, but I’m beginning to think he wants _more_ than just that.”

Jon looks up again and Martin follows his gaze, but he sees nothing but the darkened ceiling. “I think he wanted me here, as his archivist, from the start. _Serving_. E-experiencing things. And he needed to get rid of his previous archivist before he could pass the role along to _me_.”

“Jesus Christ, what does the guy have against a severance package?” Tim’s revulsion mirrors Martin’s own. He’d thought Elias was bad, but bad in a normal human way. Not in a _shooting and harvesting the flesh of his employee_ kind of way. And what does that even mean for Jon? Would Elias kill him if he became an unnecessary complication?

“Things are more _complicated_ than that. Elias is human, yes, but he’s got _power_. This place… the Archives have power.” Jon pulls his hand free from Martin’s and he feels immediately bereft. It’s silly, but even the cold touch of Jon’s skin was a comfort against the dark of the tunnels. “Elias calls them _gods_, I, we selkies, think of it differently, as- as _Ways_, but the concept is the _same_. There are manifestations of the things we fear, and they _feed_ on fear. I am a _piece_ of one, Elias _serves_ another. This place is a temple to the Unblinking, or the Eye, or the Ceaseless Watcher. It collects knowledge of horrible things, but it doesn’t try to _help. _ It only makes things worse.”

“Sorry, let me get this straight.” Tim’s eyes glint and he leans forward. The anger is back in his eyes, his tone like the snap of a whip. “We’ve been working for some evil god for _months_ and you didn’t think to _mention it?_”

Jon folds backwards and Martin steps forward, situating his bulk between Jon and Tim. “He didn’t _exactly_ have much freedom, now did he?”

“Doesn’t seem to me like he’s lost the ability to speak,” Tim shoots back, and Martin takes in a deep breath to swallow the desire to punch him. It's getting difficult to resist.

Before he can respond, Jon speaks up from behind him, peeping around his arm. “I tried—m-my organizational system, it reflects...but I _couldn’t_, I couldn’t _say _anything. Elias can see _everything_ I do."

Jon stops himself, dropping his eyes. Silence falls over the group like a kick in the stomach. Tim and Martin stare each other in the eyes for one second, two seconds, and then Tim _breaks_.

“_What?_”

“Not just me. He can see _anything_. He can even see into peoples’ minds. He just makes a point to always be watching _me_.”

“Why the fuck did you wait this long to bring up that little tidbit?” Tim whirls around and lifts the pipe again, scanning the darkness behind him. His knuckles are white with how tight he grips it. 

“N-not in the tunnels,” Jon continues, stammering. “I think this is his blindspot. That’s why I came down here. I don’t want him to _see_ this. I can’t handle him _watching_ me anymore. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape _any_ of it.”

“Hey, hey, Jon,” Martin turns around and squeezes his hands around Jon’s upper arms to try and hold him steady. “It’s okay. _You’re_ okay. You’re not alone anymore. We’re going to help you.”

“Are we?” Tim sounds incredulous, and Martin turns over his shoulder to glare at him. “Sounds like a lot of risk just because you read some book about _seals_. How do you know this isn’t all some elaborate trick between him and his husband? He’s spent _way_ more time with Elias than he has with us, and he literally just told us himself that he _can’t_ disobey anything Elias tells him to do.”

“You can’t seriously think Jon is against us.” Martin is a little aghast. How could anyone look at Jon and not see how scared he is?

“You can’t seriously think he _isn’t!_ No offense Jon, I’m sure you’re brainwashed into it or whatever, but we _just_ found out that him and his superhuman husband have us trapped in some kind of evil god death cult. My first instinct is not to feel bad for _him_.”

Tim is pacing like a trapped zoo animal, the pipe still held tight. He’s making a little bit of sense, Martin can see where he’s coming from. But what about _captive husband_ does Tim not get?

“He’s right,” Jon says quietly, and Martin looks back at him only to find him with his head tucked down. So _defeated_. “There’s no way to know if you can trust me.”

“Too bad,” Martin says, utterly sure. “I already _do_.”

Jon looks up and he looks so soft, so desperate, how could Martin _not_ trust him? He barely resists the urge to wrap his arms around Jon and curl around him until nothing else can touch him. 

“But can I trust _you?_” Jon whispers, barely more than just a breath, so soft that Martin almost doesn’t hear him.

“I’ve heard enough,” Tim announces before Martin can respond. Martin turns around, reluctantly letting go of Jon in order to face Tim as he swings the pipe up to rest along his shoulders. “You’ve always been weird as fuck, and Martin seems pretty damn sure, so I’ll believe that you’re what you say you are. _But_ that doesn’t mean I’m going to _trust_ you. And it doesn’t mean I’m going to risk my ass _helping_ you.”

“I understand,” Jon answers, his voice barely holding steady. “You have to look out for yourself. I understand.”

“Tim—” Martin starts, but Tim cuts him off.

“Don’t push it, Martin. Not today. I can’t handle any more today.”

“Fine.” Martin reaches down again and catches Jon’s hand in his own. Immediately, Jon threads their fingers together, and Martin has to turn away to hide his smile. Jon’s not alone. He _must_ know that now.

Tim starts back up the tunnel and Martin follows, side by side with Jon. The silence is back, but it’s softer this time, drained of its tension. As they finally reach the stairs, Jon tugs on Martin’s hand and he turns back around. Behind him, he hears Tim climbing up and out into the Archives, but all he can focus on is staring at his hand as Jon pointedly holds it just a second longer before letting go and pulling away.

“Martin,” he begins in a quiet, husky voice, and Martin can feel his heartbeat jump. “What was that book you read?”

Martin blinks, and swallows the foolish disappointment that fills his throat. What had he been expecting him to say, really? Stupid, stupid. Martin laughs a bit to buy himself time and rubs his hand down the front of his jumper to get off the sweat.

“It wasn’t really a _book_, honestly. It was just a manuscript. Like someone wrote it to submit to publishing but didn’t quite get there.” Martin gestures to the stairs and Jon takes the invitation to start climbing up out of the darkness. Martin follows close behind him, and then shuts the trapdoor behind them. As he stands up he says, “I still have it in my desk if you’d like to take a look at it.”

“Would you mind? Even Elias didn’t have an accurate book about selkies in his library, I just _assumed_ one didn’t exist.”

Martin crosses the room to his desk and bends over to pull open the bottom drawer where he’d stashed the book after moving out of Document Storage. “Here we are,” he says, dropping the papers that had been burying it on the floor. “_The Care and Keeping of Selkies_ by Alexander Sims.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, and it takes a moment before Martin looks up at him to see that all the color has drained out of his face. Martin staggers to his feet in a panic, banging his knee painfully on the still-open drawer as he tries to get over to Jon. He reaches out a hand and Jon all but _jumps_ backwards to get away from him.

“I, um, I… I _don’t_, actually I didn’t,” Jon trips over his words. “I’m sorry, I n-need to go sit down.”

Martin curses his desk as he struggles to get around it and over to Jon who is practically fleeing towards his office. At the edge of his awareness, Martin registers Tim staring at them, but he can’t focus on it. He barely makes it halfway across the room before Jon fumbles the door open and steps into his office.

“Ah, hello Jon.”

Martin freezes. Over Jon’s head, he can just barely see the top of a head of perfectly slicked back hair lounging back against the back of Jon’s chair.

“Would you call your assistants in here, please?” Elias says. “I think it’s time we all had a _chat_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy Tuesday! Hope you're all staying safe in this crazy world we're living in right now, and hopefully this extra long new chapter will be a bit of entertainment to brighten your day! You guys always brighten our day with your enthusiasm and your comments, so it's a happy and mutually beneficial relationship.
> 
> Special thanks as usual to the lovely Osiris Jones/SmallHorizons for the beta and the fantastic Mugatu/gertruderobinsonscat has magically produced EVEN MORE GORGEOUS FANART. You're fantastic and insanely talented, I don't know how you work so fast. You can check them out here:
> 
> [Sushi Date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/55583146)
> 
> [Honeymoon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/55625362#workskin)  
  
[Sad Selkie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/55713178#workskin)
> 
> (Please bear in mind that although these pieces are all SFW they are included in a collection featuring NSFW pieces so proceed with caution!)
> 
> So yeah! Martin knows, now Tim knows, and it seems like a reckoning with Elias is finally unavoidable. Will our boys make it through alright? We'll see you next Tuesday to find out!


	31. The Sins of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias provides clarity. Jon discovers his past.

Elias is not in the business of being caught off guard. Gertrude, bless her unbeating heart, had tried her best, but he’d always had the upper hand. It’s always easier to _be _the institution than to seek to change it. The status quo craves to be maintained. People crave stability. Elias provides that.

At least, he does for now. Until he has time to enact his own personal upheaval.

When working with a creature such as Jonathan, it always pays to be flexible. His unpredictability, as much as it occasionally irks Elias, is necessary for his purpose. So less planning, more rolling with the punches as they come to him. Even without a plan, Elias has had more than enough foresight to predict what little push his husband will need from him at each new complication. So far, Jon hasn’t done anything so outside Elias’ expectations that he can’t rebound from it. Turn it to his advantage.

Jon stands at the doorway to his own office, looking like his hand braced on the knob is the only point of stability keeping him from collapsing entirely to the ground. He has sawdust in his hair. Elias flicks his eyes up and down, but he doesn’t see any blood on Jon’s clothes. He’d been watching the confrontation with the Stranger creature, of course, prepared to intervene if it went too far, but he couldn’t see what happened in the tunnels. And Tim _had_ been carrying a pipe. There’s a tiny flush of pride in Elias’ chest at seeing Jon come out of being discovered by his assistants entirely unscathed. Perhaps Elias is rubbing off on him.

Jon doesn’t even need to call Martin and Tim in before they’re rushing forward, crowding at the doorway behind Jon. From the slack-jawed gape on Martin’s face and the bloody murder on Tim’s, Elias has to assume Jon has spilled a few secrets that weren’t his to tell. Well. It’s to be expected. Elias had anticipated that Jonathan, try as he might, would be incapable of hiding his true nature forever. He’s simply not a good enough liar. A pity in this particular instance, but one of his better qualities in Elias’ opinion. It’s charming, the way he holds entire novels in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

Like now. He is staring at Elias, and he is scared, and he is thinking about the Stranger’s proposal to kill Elias, and he is wondering why he couldn’t take it, and he is desperate to be grounded. To find normalcy after everything he has suffered through today. Elias breathes in his emotions like a slow drag off a cigarette. He’s _adorable_.

“Jonathan,” Elias says, breaking the tense silence. “Come here, please.”

Jon stiffens, his spine going straight and his hand tightening around the doorknob. Elias waits, smiling placidly, not looking away from his Jon even as Martin takes a step forward and situates just the barest edge of his shoulder between Jon and Elias.

“You must have been scared.” Elias lowers his voice and holds out a hand, palm up. “Come here. Let me take care of you.”

“He’s not going anywhere near you,” Martin snaps and, well, now he’s earned a bit of Elias’ irritation. If he continues to insist on being a pest, Elias can treat him as such.

“I hardly think he needs you making his decisions for him,” Elias says, dryly. He extends his hand again a bit more forcefully. “Let me see your arm, Jon.” 

“Your arm?” Martin asks, half turning back towards Jon, but Elias couldn’t care less about him. He is watching his selkie, his Jonathan, as slowly, one finger at a time, he loosens his grip on the door and stumbles across the room towards Elias. Like a newborn deer using its legs for the first time, struggling to reach its mother. 

All of Jon’s anger, his hatred, his _fight_, none of it matters to Elias. Not when all he has to do is hold out his hand and Jon will come to him. It doesn’t matter if Jon is trembling as he places his wrist in Elias’ grasp, it only matters that he still does it. It is better to be _needed_ than to be loved. Feelings change faster than circumstances. Jon knows whose opinions of him matter. Jon knows who he _belongs_ to. And Martin is welcome to watch.

Jon hisses in pain as Elias slowly rolls up his sleeve over the bubbled and burned skin of his arm. Iron burns always look worse than they are. It will heal nicely, and leave a perfect scar. 

“You’ve been so brave today,” Elias murmurs, pressing his lips to the inside of Jon’s wrist. “Protecting me.”

“What the fuck are we all standing around for?” That’s Timothy, certainly, barging past Martin into the office. Elias doesn’t need to look up to know that. He pulls out a tub of burn ointment he’d brought down with him and unscrews the cap casually. He feels Tim’s rage simmering hotter and hotter in the air around them. “You asked to talk to us all and then you’re not even going to _try_ to explain yourself? We _know_ what you did.”

“Oh? And what did I do?” Elias scoops two fingers through the ointment and dabs it gently onto Jon’s skin, enjoying the tiny whimpers he can’t quite hold back.

“You _murdered_ Gertrude.”

“She threatened to burn down my Institute.”

“She _what?_” Martin squeaks. When Elias looks up at him, he’s looking a bit pale, a bit shaky. Perhaps all the stress of the day is finally catching up to him. “Weren’t you two on the same side? Why would she do that?”

Well. That is a more advanced question than Elias had been anticipating. “We had a few disagreements,” he explains, “with regards to _upper management._”

“What does it matter?” Tim snaps. “That’s a good enough confession for me. And it’s even on _fucking _tape just like everything else here.”

From behind his back, Tim produces a quietly whirring tape recorder. He must have grabbed it on his way in. “Unnecessary really,” Elias says, gesturing at the large standing recorder on Jon’s desk that he’d started up before the three of them had emerged from the tunnels.

“Double the proof then.” Tim drops the recorder to the ground with a clatter. He swings his other hand around to grab the metal pipe he’d lugged into the room with him, and brings it up over his head.

“Woah, woah, hold on Tim!” Martin steps forward, holding out his hands. “Can’t we just phone the police?”

“Jonathan.” While he waits for the two of them to sort that out between them, Elias looks up at his husband who is still staring at him with those wide, desperate eyes. Elias pats his own knee lightly. “Sit.”

Jon sits. He practically crumples into Elias’ lap, tucking his face in tight to the crook of Elias’ neck and hunching over as Elias smoothes a gentle hand up and down his spine. Elias has never loved anyone more than he loves Jon in this moment.

“A rich bastard like him probably has all kinds of connections in the force. I’m not risking him slipping out of this.”

“Well we can’t just _murder someone_!”

“I dunno,” Tim says, “I’m feeling pretty fucking capable.”

“Not to interrupt your _process_,” Elias leans his head against the side of Jon’s and looks up at his bickering employees. “But I feel that in the spirit of transparency you should know there are a few more _complicating factors_ you should take into account.”

Martin’s eyes flick from Elias to the back of Jon’s head and his hands ball into fists. People really are so simple.

“What _factors?_” Tim hisses.

“Well. You all signed employment contracts.” Elias pauses a moment, letting the confusion sink in just for the fun of it. One of these days, Tim will manage to go entirely purple from rage and won’t _that_ be a sight. Maybe he’d even fall to the Slaughter or the Desolation and save Elias some future headache. “_That_ ties you to the Institute. Like fingers on a hand, and I am the beating heart of it. Should I, or the Institute, be destroyed, you will all, unfortunately, follow suit.”

“W-what?” Martin stammers out.

“And it wouldn’t be a pleasant death.”

Tim’s eyes narrow. “You’re bluffing.”

Elias tries to shrug, but his range of movement is somewhat limited by the selkie he’s holding curled up in his lap, so he settles for a disaffected smile instead. “Go ahead, then. Swing. Beat my head in, and as you and the last friend you have left in the world choke to death on your own blood, you’ll at least have the satisfaction of my being unable to say _I told you so._” 

Tim glances unsteadily over at Martin and Elias can see the moment his confidence falters. That little shred of doubt, splintering as it grows. The pipe drops down to Tim’s shoulder with a thump.

“There we are.”

“Well, we can still have him arrested!” Martin babbles, his voice balancing on the tightrope between hysteria and despair. “He _murdered _someone. He confessed! They can’t, I mean, it’s still the _police_.”

“You’re certainly welcome to _try_,” Elias says, leaning back in Jon’s chair. He brings Jon with him, keeping him pressed safely against him with a hand on the back of his head. “But while you both have signed _one_ contract with me, Jonathan here is under _quite_ a few more.”

Martin stiffens at the exact same moment Jon tenses against him. Elias teases Jon’s hand away from where it’s clenched tight in the front of his shirt and guides it forward. “Come, love, let Martin see.” Jon sits up, confusion and growing panic in his eyes. Oh his dear, darling Jonathan. It’s far too late to panic now. Elias twists him gently around until both he and Martin can see the antique gold ring on Jon’s finger. “Jon here wouldn’t do _well_ without me.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Martin can’t tear his eyes away from the ring.

“It means, I own his _skin_. And I own _him_. And now, he belongs to the Eye as well.” Elias keeps a careful watch on Martin to see his response to the term, but he doesn’t seem confused. That must have been _quite _the little heart to heart he had with Jon down in the tunnels. “If I left the Institute for an…._extended_ period of time, Jonathan would be forced to come with me. And I _honestly_ can’t say if he’d survive being ripped from the Eye in that way.”

“Cages within cages,” Jon murmurs so quietly that Elias almost misses it. He turns to look at Jon and tugs his arm just a bit until their lips press together in a soft, chaste kiss.

“Simply a safeguard, my dear. It needn’t worry you.”

“So you get locked up and the monster dies?” Tim tightens his grip on the pipe. “Still sounds like a good deal to me.”

“_Tim._” Martin sounds scandalized. He steps forward and plants himself halfway between Tim and Elias and it’s all awfully convenient of him. Elias knew he kept him around for a reason. “You aren’t seriously planning on _killing_ Jon?”

“The way I see it, I’d be saving a whole lot of people a whole lot of hurt.”

“I won’t _let you_.”

“You can’t _stop me._”

“Tell me, Jon,” Elias says, taking Jon’s chin between his fingers and swiveling his face away from his assistants until he can look him in the eyes. He’s scared. As he should be. “Are you wondering _why_ you didn’t let that thing kill me?”

“It wanted to kill _Tim_,” Jon says, but he hardly sounds convinced.

“And how do you feel about going out of your way for Tim now, hm?”

“Just tell me this,” Tim snaps. He holds the pipe out past Martin, pointing it straight at Elias while he glares him down. Jon flinches back from the pipe, as far as he can without falling. “Did you kill Sasha?”

Elias feels Jon’s eyes right next to him, intent upon him. “No,” he answers, tilting his head in mild amusement.

“Fine.” Tim drops the shaking end of the pipe to the ground. “Fine then. We’ll just do _nothing _then, is that it? Sit around waiting to die?”

“If it’s any consolation, I really would prefer not to kill any of you. It’s a messy complication I certainly don’t _need_, and you’re more valuable here helping Jon with his work.” Elias strokes a hand down Jon’s back demonstratively.

“Oh. Awesome.” Tim kicks the tape recorder he’d dropped on the ground so that it skids across the floor and hits Jon’s desk with a thud. “That makes me feel _so much better._”

“What do you even _want_ from us?” Martin asks, turning back to face Elias with a kind of quiet desperation bleeding from the edges of his voice.

“Aside from you continuing on as you have been? Not much.” Elias scooches Jon’s chair forward until he can rest a hand on the desk, the other settling at the small of Jon’s back. “And if Tim wouldn’t mind leaving, I’d like a word with you and Jon in private.”

“You have a lot of _nerve_ ordering me about,” Tim snarls.

Elias raises his eyebrows, just a touch. “I _am _still your boss.”

“More like _jailor_.”

“Just because you only now became aware of the situation, doesn’t mean it’s anything new, Tim. You’ve had no problem doing your job before this little scene. I assumed you’d be happier now that you know the truth of your circumstances.” Elias strokes a hand through Jon’s hair, enjoying the tiny tremor that goes through his body. “Don’t you think it’s better to understand your limitations, Jon?” 

Jon nods, shakily, and Tim’s glare grows even darker.

“There we are.” Elias smiles up at Tim. “Now. That will be all.”

“Fine,” Tim snaps. He turns and stomps out of the office, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.

“So.” Martin crosses his arms. It would be a much more intimidating stance if Elias couldn’t see the way he is gripping his fingers into the meat of his arms to keep them from trembling.

“Don’t think you’ve escaped my notice, Martin. _Leniency_ is not the same as approval.”

“I’m sorry?” Martin’s eyes flick to Jon again as if he contains the answers, and Jon is staring back at him. Elias had thought he’d already nipped this particular complication in the bud, but it is apparently a more stubborn weed than he’d first assumed.

Elias hums a soothing noise to Jon as he slides his grip along the bottom of his arm and lifts it again. Jon follows along numbly, so pliant, so obedient. Elias kisses the skin beside the burnt patch and Jon’s eyes squint with just the tiniest thrill of pain.

Elias stares Martin in the eyes. “Keep your _hands_ off my husband.” 

He watches as the anger and fear battle their way through Martin’s expression, landing on an affronted sort of indignation. “You don’t own him. You can’t control him. He’s a _person_, not a puppet.”

“It’s not a crime to be concerned about my beloved.” Elias twists his hand enough to press two fingers hard into Jon’s burn, and Jon whimpers in pain. “He bruises so _very_ easily.”

“Stop it!” Martin rushes forward. “You’re hurting him!”

“Aren’t _you_ the one hurting him? Seeing him so familiar with another man is bound to make me jealous.” Elias digs his nails in and Jon cries out in pain, hitting Elias’ chest with his other hand. 

Martin reaches out like he’s going to grab Jon and pull him away from Elias, but he freezes, reconsidering. Everyone has their tipping point. Elias squeezes and Jon screams again and Martin drops his hands. “Stop! Stop, _please_.” 

Elias releases Jon’s arm and catches him as he collapses face-first into Elias’ chest, whimpering.

“I get it,” Martin says, staring at Elias with barefaced terror, face pale and pupils blown wide. The proper expression. “I get it. I won’t touch him.” 

“Thank you.” Elias nods as if he was concluding any other business meeting. “You may go.” 

Martin stares at Elias, and at Jon panting on his lap draped over him, as if he wants to say something more. But Elias knows he won’t, and he doesn’t. He just looks at Jon’s hunched over back once more, and then turns and leaves. He even closes the door behind him.

“You shouldn’t let others pressure you into doing things you _know_ are wrong, Jonathan,” Elias says, taking his husband gently by the shoulders so he can push him back and look him in the eyes.

Jon simply whines like an animal, his hazy eyes struggling to focus on Elias’ face. 

Elias tuts, disapprovingly. “Use your words, Jon.”

“Why…” Jon rocks forward a bit in Elias’ grip. “_Why_ didn’t I let the creature kill you?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, deep down. Don’t we, Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon says, exhaustion seeping through his words. “Yes I suppose we do.”

Gingerly, Jon lifts his hand and cups it against Elias’ cheek. There is no hesitation in his eyes as he leans forward and kisses Elias softly. He tastes like sweat and sawdust and the cold, stale air of the tunnels and Elias has never wanted to kiss anyone more. 

***

Jon can feel the weight of Elias' eyes on him, heavy as anchors, for those first three days after _the incident. _Both at work and at home Elias has been a constant, hovering figure. He keeps Jon close beside him, letting him help with cooking or reading aloud to him in the evenings. Throughout it all, he keeps up a constant chattering conversation, as if nothing has changed between them. Jon thinks perhaps it’s just that he likes the sound of his own voice. 

In the evenings he pulls Jon in close, keeping him pressed tightly against him where he can turn and bury kisses in Jon’s hair. Jon clings to his husband and does his best not to think of anyone else’s hands wrapping around his waist. Or anyone else’s lips against his. 

If nothing else good came out of his secret being revealed, at least it broke some of the tension in the Archives. It feels good to not have to tiptoe around Martin all the time, or feel Tim staring at him everytime he does something _wrong_. Now Tim doesn’t look at him at all. He works in silence, and gets Martin to drop off his files. It hurts, but it isn’t _entirely_ unexpected. At least he isn’t threatening to kill anyone anymore, but Jon can see the spark of murderous rage in his eyes every time Elias comes down to the Archives to collect Jon.

Martin isn’t hiding his hatred towards Elias either. Sometimes Jon catches him staring at the clock as it approaches time for Jon to leave, expression growing darker and darker. They haven’t been the same, Jon and Martin, since their talk with Elias. When Jon puts a report down next to Martin’s hand, Martin pulls it back like he’s been burned. If he and Jon have to pass each other in the stacks, Martin will flatten himself entirely back against a bookshelf to give Jon ample room to walk around without accidentally touching. It doesn’t keep Martin from bringing him tea, or checking up on him, but it’s not the same. 

Martin’s only trying to protect him, but sometimes Jon finds himself selfishly wishing for… for _something_. He’s not sure what. A warmth he didn’t realize was there until it was gone.

And then of course, there’s the manuscript.

Jon tries his best to ignore it. He reads statements, does the proper follow up, files. Just like Elias expects. All while ignoring the inescapable tidal wave building and building in his chest, the itching need to _know_ battling against the desire to stay blissfully ignorant. _Alexander Sims._ The name his grandmother had always told him belonged to his father. The itch to read the manuscript _tears _at Jon. He wants, _needs,_ to know what it says. But as long as he doesn’t read it, Jon doesn’t have to confront all the awful things done to his mother, the punishments Elias has branded into his memory.

Jon remembers the pain of the iron manacles, and it mixes with the ache of his own burn.

It ends up taking Jon several days to drop his hackles enough to broach the topic of the manuscript with Martin, when he feels Elias' gaze slip for a moment. 

"Martin," he says, when Martin comes in to drop off his tea. Jon takes it from him, both of them moving carefully so as not to brush fingers. Jon gratefully wraps his cold hands around the mug to warm them up. It's almost as nice as actually holding Martin's hand. He brushes the thought aside and gets down to business.

"That… That manuscript. The one about, er, selkies. Do you think I could, or _we _could, I want to—” Jon pulls the mug in until he is pressing the comforting warmth against his sternum. “Do you think we could look through it together?”

“Are you _sure_?” Martin asks, his voice going soft and careful. Jon isn’t sure who he’s worried about upsetting, Jon or Elias. “Last time I brought it up you looked like you were about to faint.”

Jon swallows, nods. “I’m ready.”

"Okay then," Martin says. “I’ll go grab it.”

Martin steps out and Jon takes that moment to savour his tea, breathing in the aroma. It's sweet, perfect, just the way he likes it. He shuffles his papers around to clear some space and calm his frantic nerves, and by the time Martin returns, there's enough space for the two of them behind his desk.

Jon takes the stack of papers Martin presents with a trembling hand. It's strange to see the name of the man who might have shared his blood, who stole his mother. It's a distant, ethereal link to a past he can't quite touch, like a shadow on water. Like the iron chains, it's a link to his mother, a lingering scar. She's always towered over his life like an abandoned lighthouse, a warning he did not heed when he crawled upon that ship deck so long ago.

Martin pulls the chair in front of Jon’s desk around and sits down next to him, keeping his hands carefully in his lap and leaning around to look over the manuscript. Jon barely notices him as he smoothes two fingers along the name _Alexander Sims_. Even just reading it to himself, the words taste like bile in his throat. 

“I…” Jon begins, blinking away the tears that are already threatening at the corners of his eyes. He feels Martin looking at him, but there is nothing he can do. “Before I married Elias, I had another name, you know.”

Martin makes an encouraging noise and Jon takes a deep breath. “It was Sims. J-Jonathan Sims.”

“Oh,” Martin says. There is so much in that syllable, dawning realization and _horror_ and confusion and the barest edge of pity.

“My grandmother had me… she thought I should… she said it was a _warning_. Keeping my last name. A warning not to trust humans.” Jon presses his fingers against the cold, unfeeling paper. “She said I had to _bear his sins._”

“Oh,” Martin says again. “So then, the selkie in the book?”

Numbly, Jon flips through the pages, his eyes sliding over the words and retaining nothing. Finally, he finds the page he somehow knew was there before he even began. A diagram of a female selkie. He has never met her before in his life, but he knows those eyes.

Jon’s voice is barely a whisper. “That’s my mother.”

Martin places a hand on Jon’s desk, just far enough away that the sides of their fingers don’t touch. “I’m so sorry.”

“When I was young I used to, to _hope_ that maybe he was different. My father. That maybe my grandmother was _wrong_ and some humans were kind.”

It feels foolish to admit, like a weakness to show just how hopeful he had been not so long ago. But even now, when he should know better, he feels so _certain_ that Martin won’t use this knowledge against him. Or at least that Martin will be _kinder_ about it. It takes a special kind of idiot to fall for the same trap three times, but still Jon trusts him.

Martin's gaze is soft, but not pitying. There's something else in his eyes Jon can't quite read, a quiet frustration. Jon lets out a long breath and flips back to the beginning of the manuscript. He might as well start from page one.

There's something strange about reading about selkies from this dehumanizing, analytic perspective. The way it looks at the legends and compares them to the actual way selkies function. The edges of the pages are well-worn, scribbled letters and numbers jotted in the margins of pages from some researcher long past. It pulls at something in Jon’s heart, thinking about how many people have read this and seen her as nothing more than an image on a page. 

The section on_ Feeding Habits_ comes across as grossly judgemental considering the author is the one doing the feeding. It_ is_ rather accurate about how often selkies need human flesh in order to stay looking human, and Alexander Sims discusses these limits as if he's personally tested them several times. Jon’s stomach aches, half imagining and half remembering his mother’s sharp urge to _consume_.

The discussion of selkie hair is so callous it almost makes Jon fling the manuscript across the room. It’s clear his father had been _told_ just how important and intimate hair was to his mother. He just didn’t _care_. Jon takes a moment to glance out of the corner of his eyes at Martin’s scrunched and focused face beside him. Martin had understood, hadn’t he? Even when the book he was learning from _hadn’t_.

They're close together, and abruptly Jon is relieved that it's Martin here. Elias would be curious, perhaps, to experiment himself. Try some of what's written. And Jon isn’t even sure he could bring himself to blame Elias for it. The part of him that isn't distantly horrified, that is greedily drinking in the knowledge, finds this manuscript _fascinating_. 

The diagrams are lovingly detailed, hours of work clearly put into them, although he has to squint to see some that are half obscured beneath the inked-on scribbles of former researchers. Jon’s gut churns each time he turns a page and sees the familiar line of a nose, or the slant of her eyebrows. He's seen them a million times in his grandmother's features, and in the mirror. The words _you have her eyes_ echo ominously in his head, Simon and Gerturde’s voices mixing and overlapping through his memory.

Suddenly, the cruel iron manacles in Artefact Storage make a terrible amount of sense. _Not the salvation you’re hoping for_, Gertrude had said about Artefact Storage. Jon's stomach twists itself in circles, a cruel, dawning sense of certainty settling over him.

This is the first time he's ever seen his mother, but he feels a swelling sense of kinship. Perhaps this is the only way he will ever see her, as an image captured in ink then buried. Something about that feels almost worse, _wrong_. Someone once free, taken, forgotten about and mirrored only in the face of her kin. The sea should have had her claim over his mother, and the Flesh allowed its natural tribute instead of two generations trapped in the same cage.

“She was here,” Jon says, breaking the focused silence in the room, and Martin jumps in surprise.

“What?”

“My mother,” Jon says, the dread certainty of the knowledge growing in his chest as the words spill from his tongue. “She was _imprisoned_ here. In the Institute.”

“How is that…” Martin trails off and then refocuses. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab something or reach out to comfort Jon like he would before. “_Why_?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Jon runs a hand down the page as if he could pull new secrets from it. “That’s why Gertrude recognized me. She knew her.”

_Gertrude._

"Hold on, hold on," Jon’s hand freezes and then shoots up to the very top of the page, where someone has marked down the number _5_. He flips back through the pages one by one, and stares at the seemingly unintelligible string of letters and numbers scribbled in the margins. “I recognize this pattern. It’s in the same style as Gertrude’s obtuse filing system. Where did you say you found this again?"

Jon stares at Martin intensely. He can feel the beginnings of the puzzle finally coming together. He can’t stop now.

"In the library," Martin says, watching Jon with a mirrored excitement that makes him flush, pleased.

"I thought the library only accepted properly published essays and books? And this, this _isn't_, right?" Jon's excitement is rising, a tide coming in.

"I suppose it _is_ a little odd that I found it there, even if your father _did_ work for the Institute." Martin narrows his eyes, thinking. He looks from the papers to Jon.

"I, I think Gertrude planted these for me to find, Martin. She warned me before she died, or tried to, at least. She _recognised_ me, Martin. These… These numbers lead to something she wanted to _show_ me."

Jon is shaking, excited. He feels the need to know humming at the edges of his vision, and he stands, moving quickly. He strides out of the room, Martin close on his heels. There is a strange pull like a fishing line tangled around his ribs, pulling him closer and closer to his goal. He follows the instinct to a dusty corner, hidden well in the far back of the Archives, amongst the files that _thankfully_ Jon has yet to begin organizing.

He trails his fingers over the files, some with papers spilling out, others so thin they seem empty. One, he sees, is packed, almost overflowing, with two rubber bands wrapped around the center to keep it together. It’s this one. He _knows_. It feels right when he finally takes it in his shaking hands. 

"This is it,” he says, his voice trembling with anticipation as he turns to Martin. “_This_ is what Gertrude hid for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the new and old readers this week! Thank you for all your comments and kudos and continuing support. 💜
> 
> Thanks to both Mugsy and Bigfigart for the fanart this week. Honestly y'all, we love every piece and really makes the week we when get one. 💜 If we draw or write anything we'd love to see it, so just send us a link or tag us on Tumblr!
> 
> You'll find Mugsy's pieces here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/55851223
> 
> including this week's Tea with Honey and Selkie Menaced by Awkward Sailor
> 
> And Bigfigart's Jon over here:  
https://bigfigart.tumblr.com/post/613682449663279104/selkie-jon-from-what-belongs-to-the-sea-by


	32. The Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three gifts from Gertrude.

_ **Click** _

_I have to say, Gertrude, I’m surprised you wanted to sit down with me. You’ve never needed my statement before._

_Yes, well, I think we can both agree that these are somewhat **unusual** circumstances._

_Just part of the job._

_Either way, I think it would be best to get the experience on the record. Considering._

_If you must._

_Alexander Sims, head of artifact procurement for the Magnus Institute, recording, regarding a… how would you refer to this?_

_Regarding the capture of a live selkie to be studied at the Magnus Institute._

Martin leans forward and presses stop on the tape recorder. “We don’t have to listen to this.”

Jon has been sitting curled up on himself, arms wrapped around his legs, knees pulled into his chest, for the last five minutes. They’ve only just started and already he finds himself shaking, his jaw clenched, his hands in tight fists. The tape recorder sits on the floor of the tunnel, halfway between him and Martin. Jon shakes his head.

“Play it,” he says, his voice raspy.

“You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I don’t have time to faint,” Jon snaps, more harshly than he intended. He retreats back into himself as an apology, burying his nose behind his forearms. Martin seems to understand, judging by his expression and the low sigh he lets out. “There’s a clue in here. There _must_ be. There’s a reason Gertrude left them for me.”

“Okay,” Martin says, still staring at Jon. He moves deliberately slowly, as if he expects Jon to change his mind before Martin can reach the play button. But Jon doesn’t have the luxury of backing out of this now. He’s _finally_ found the piece of his past that had been missing for his entire life. What sort of son would he be if he didn’t learn from his mother’s mistakes?

_You know, it’s funny. _Jon listens to the voice of his father and tries to find something familiar in the soft, pleasant lilt. Had he inherited that sharp way he clicks his teeth around T’s? Would he too have spoken roundly, forming words over a bubble of good humor, if he’d been raised by this man? _My work for the Institute brings me all around the world. You may enjoy it here in your ivory tower, waiting for stories to inevitably come to you, but I **chase** them. I am at my core, an investigator. If there’s rumors of a curse, or a haunting, or an unexplainable occurrence, **I’m** the first one there._

_I fail to see how this is funny._

_Well, you see, I wasn’t chasing **anything** when I found Delia. I was on vacation._

_A vacation? From the Institute? I was under the impression there was no such thing._

_Yeah, well, you’re still new. And it wasn’t a long one anyway. My plan was to take a nice, relaxing long weekend down in Bournemouth and stay so drunk the entire time that I wouldn’t be able to notice the supernatural nausea over my very mundane hangover._

_And that’s where you met the girl._

_That’s where the girl met **me**. She surfaced right up beside this dock I was sitting on, asking questions, demanding some of my beer. Little firecracker, and curious as all get out. Reminded me a bit of you, Gertie, if you were prettier._

_Get to the point, please, Alexander._

_The point is, she wanted it. The alcohol. The company. We had a weekend I won’t soon forget. But as liberal as I was with the answers about humanity and such, she wouldn’t budge an inch on telling me about herself. She never even stayed the night. I was desperate. A man like me, working in the business I work in, serving the god I serve, and here was a living incarnation of the artifacts I spent my life pursuing smiling up at me from my arms who wouldn’t tell me how she **worked**. _

_And that’s when the drugging happened?_

_Don’t give me that look. I didn’t hardly force her to do **anything**. Once you have their skin, selkies are remarkably pliant. Delia accompanied me up here of her own free will. We’re technically married, you know._

_Congratulations._

_Thank you. I would invite you to the wedding but we’re not much for ceremonies._

_Wouldn’t want your guests to find out that you keep your wife locked up in an iron cage?_

_Feeling sorry for a monster, are we, Gertrude? I never pegged you for soft._

_I’m just stating a fact._

_She belongs in the collection. James agrees._

_James Wright would approve of **anything** you do. You’re his favorite pet project. You know, I looked into it, and the position of artifact procurement never even existed before you._

_Well, my mum always told me that the best way to live is to find what you’re good at and then make someone pay you for it._

Jon uncurls and snatches the tape recorder up as he pushes himself to standing. His hand half covers the speaker, making Gertrude’s voice come out muffled and indistinct. He turns and marches away down the tunnel, back towards the Institute.

“Jon?” Jon hears Martin behind him, gathering the rest of Gertrude’s file up into his arms, but he doesn’t look back and he doesn’t _stop_. The tape is still playing, but the words he’s already heard keep bouncing around Jon’s brain, filling up his ears with static. It’s too much, it’s all _too much_.

“Jon, just hold on a second, will you?” Martin’s footsteps echo against the stone walls of the tunnel as he rushes to try and catch up.

_—all kinds of experiments,_ Jon’s father is saying, that same irritating laughter in his tone. _Maybe you’re used to simply being told the truth, Archivist, but I have to take a more **hands on** approach. _

Jon storms up the steps and across the hall, his hand grabbing the handle of the door to Artefact Storage before he hears Martin behind him, breathing heavily.

“I’m so sorry,” Martin says. Jon can feel the itch of Martin’s fingers hovering just over his shoulder. Wanting to touch.

“He didn’t even _care_.” Jon’s hand tightens on the door handle and he squeezes his eyes shut. “If he was going to take _everything_ from her, the least he could do was actually _want_ her.”

At least….at least Elias actually _wants_ him. Jon peeks back over his shoulder at Martin’s scrunched up face and wonders if that's not somehow _worse_. If Elias didn’t love him, at least he’d still be able to live in his childish delusions where love is soft and kind. If Elias didn’t love him, at least he’d know exactly where he stands. 

_A cage is a cage is a cage_.

He drags his eyes up to the entrance, and tries to steady his racing heart. 

There's a peculiar pull in his gut, leading him past this door. It's _intense_, the strongest the feeling has ever been. Somewhere between nausea and hunger, a gaping, empty maw where his fear should be. He pulls the door open, far rougher than he should.

He is only half aware of Martin following him past the shelves, that damned table, everything. The objects, any other day, would be both a curiosity and something to be feared. Not today though. 

Jon finally stands in front of the last closed door. It's marked _High Risk, authorized personnel only. _Jon’s hand reaches for the handle before his brain can process the motion. The _click_ that echoes in the room feels heavy, the weight of generations of pain. Iron and flesh and blood bound to this place.

He opens the door and turns on the light. It flickers unsteadily to life, and casts a dim incandescent glow over the room. Jon's eyes pass over boxes, a chair, toys, and a locked glass cabinet nearly overflowing with books. Jon follows his feet to a corner, and _stops_. Behind him, he hears an intake of breath.

This is it. _This_ is where his mother was kept.

The cage, Jon can already tell by the quiet itching under his skin, is mostly made of iron. The bottom looks like it once had a mat of some kind, thin and uncomfortable, rotted and dusty with time. It's...it's so _small_, smaller even than it had seemed when Elias had forced the memories into his mind. It's _just_ tall enough to sit in, but even then, Jon knows he'd have to either slump or lean his neck just a little to be comfortable and not burn himself.

Jon wonders how small she was. How _thin_ from her mistreatment at the hands of his_ father_. How had she managed to survive this long enough to have a _child?_ To have him. This is… this cage is where he was _born_. 

He sets the still-running tape down on a nearby surface and slowly settles down on his knees in front of the cage. Distantly, he hears the story winding down. The whoosh of Martin setting the folder down feels as far away as the smug tones of his father, and Gertude’s callous curiosity. It overlaps with the memory of her, older, warning him about this place, about what he'd find. There is an odd stillness in him, as if he’d already _known_ all of this and seeing it, hearing the words, is just a heavy blanket of fuzzing static draped around his shoulders.

A half-sob rises, caught in his throat, before it bubbles out into the air. This is the closest he'll ever be to his mother. To her strength and resolve. To her secrets. 

Martin kneels gently next to him and hesitates, hovering nervously with his hand near Jon’s shoulder as if he cannot decide where he belongs in this picture. There is a soft rustling and Jon looks over from the corners of his eyes to see Martin struggling to pull his jumper up over his head. He keeps staring as he feels the weight of the jumper settle over his shoulders, blocking out the chilly air of the storage room. It’s soft.

“Not touching, right?” Martin says, as if it’s a joke he knows no one will laugh at.

Jon grabs the sleeves of Martin’s jumper and pulls them tight around himself. The pressure helps somewhat, but it does nothing to drive away the chill. “I’m cursed, aren’t I.”

“Jon, you—”

“My _mother_ was trapped here. Now _I_ am trapped here. My mother died here, now I will die here.” Jon curls in on himself further, his gaze distant. “I was always going to end up here, wasn’t I?”

“That’s not true.” Jon wishes he could steal the certainty from Martin’s voice. Clutch it like a pearl to cherish and always keep close. “Nothing is over. You’re not going to _die_ here, I’m not going to let you.”

“Why?” Jon whips his head around to glare at Martin, the light fuzzing as tears start to pool in his eyes. “Because you’d do such a better job of it?”

Martin recoils, like he's been bitten, and it aches at something deep inside Jon. He can’t _afford_ to be sympathetic. Jon is done with trusting humans. It's the only way he'll survive this. The cage stands as a testament to their kindness. “Of _what_?”

“Of _owning me_.”

Martin’s eyes grow wide, and he waves his hands dismissively, as if trying to brush that idea away. Guilty. “Jon, what are you talking about? I’m trying to _help you_.”

“I know the way humans _help_.” Jon grabs Martin’s jumper and yanks it off his back, flinging it at Martin who catches it instinctively, holding it defensively in front of his chest. “I know what all you people _want_.”

“I don’t—”

Jon slams a hand on the stone floor and Martin jumps. “Don’t pretend you _haven’t_ been lying to me! I know you have! Elias _told_ me, he told me you’ve been lying to me!”

“Oh, and we’re trusting _Elias_ now?” Martin scoffs, posture stiff and incredulous.

Jon bares his teeth, not sharp, but a warning all the same. “I found the note in your bin. You hope none of us find out you’ve been _lying_. Lying about what, Martin? This ridiculous play at _caring about me?_”

“Lying on my CV!” Jon’s anger freezes in his throat as he tries to process the words. A tear slips unnoticed down his cheek as he stares at Martin. “I had to drop out of secondary school to take care of my mum. She’s _sick_. And I needed the money so I made up a bunch of qualifications. I don’t have a masters in parapsychology, I didn’t even go to _college_. I’m only 29.”

Jon’s hands start to shake and he grips the front of his shirt hard to try and steady them. He’s an idiot. Why is he believing this? Why does hearing that Martin is innocent feel like the sun, slowly rising in his chest? He should never, after everything he’s been through, trust _any_ human ever again. 

“I didn’t _want_ to lie to you, Jon, I didn’t mean to, I just, I _can’t_ lose this job. I didn’t want to get fired.” Martin lets out a sharp, jaded laugh. “Not that it really matters anymore, though, does it? I couldn’t be fired if I _wanted_ to.”

So why does he still trust Martin?

“Y-you…” Jon feels his composure start to wobble again, the world blurring out. “You don’t want my skin for yourself?”

“No,” Martin says, voice full of revulsion. His eyes flick to the ceiling for a second. “You may not be _human_, Jon, but you’re still a _person_.”

A sob tears its way free from Jon’s throat and it collapses _everything_ that remains of his composure. He rubs desperately at the tears that pour from his eyes, as if he hasn’t truly _cried_ once since Elias first imprisoned him. It should feel _good, _having Martin on his side, but it hurts like a knife twisting in his gut.

If it isn’t all of humanity, then it’s just _him_. His and his mother’s own _rotten_ taste.

Jon turns towards the cage where his mother spent her life and reaches out, still shuddering through sobs, grabbing onto one of the bars. He feels the iron begin to sear into the flesh of his palm, but he doesn’t let go. This is his bloodline. This is his _fate_. This is his _inheritance_.

“Jon!” Amidst the pain screaming through his mind, Jon almost doesn’t feel Martin wrap his hand around his wrist and pull his hand away from the iron cage. He can feel his pulse beating loud in the tips of each of his fingers. He stares down at Martin’s hand, pressed warm and soft into his skin.

Martin follows his gaze, looking down at where he’s holding Jon tightly, and then pulls his hand back sharply. As if _Jon_ was iron and he’d been the one burned. 

“We need to get something on that,” Martin says quickly, breathlessly.

“It’s fine.” Jon pulls the hand into his chest and cradles it gently. “My mother lived through worse.”

“This can’t be what Gertrude wanted,” Martin says, pushing himself up to standing. Jon hears him puttering around behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look at him. “If she just wanted you to think that you were destined to be _trapped_ in the Institute forever she would’ve left these tapes with Elias. Do his job for him.”

“Tapes,” Jon rasps out.

Martin’s quick footsteps stop. “Oh! Of course!”

There is a click as Martin ejects the tape of Jon’s father and slots in the next one.

_Click._

_Log 585, Alexander Sims recording. Do you know why I’m here, Delia?_

_Finally decided to care about your own child?_

Jon’s heart leaps into his throat. His mother sounds ragged, her voice sanded down to a rasp, too exhausted to even sound painful. And yet, even still, even worn down to a fragment of itself, Jon still recognizes her voice. Deep in his heart, he knows it’s _her_. His mother.

_Of course I care about our boy, Delia. He’s half mine as well, you know. And just think how much we can learn from him about the development of young selkies, how they grow their skin— _

Jon’s mother laughs. It is _barely_ a laugh, but there is a cruel mirth there. A tiny fragment of control in a life spent chained and caged. 

_He **won’t** grow his skin._

_So you keep saying. You know, if you’re doing this to keep him from me, I will find out. And it won’t be pleasant for you._

_What is pleasant? You have so **graciously** trained me in suffering, I cannot be frightened any longer._

_Oh? You think so, do you? Well, I still haven’t told you **why** I came here._

Jon holds his breath alongside his mother in the quiet whirring silence of the recording.

_Have you heard the term sink or swim, Delia? You selkies are so good underwater, I assume young Jonathan will take to it quite quickly once I hold him down under it. Either I get a selkie, or I don’t **need** him._

_He’s your son! _Jon’s mother gasps. He hears the shuffle of limbs and he can feel a half remembered sensation of her arms tightening around him.

_And I would certainly prefer he **survive**. If you have any advice as to how to make that happen I’d be all ears._

Jon stares at the cage looming in front of him like a cold unfeeling phantom of his past. Someone takes in a shuddering breath and he’s not sure if it’s him, Martin, or his mother. Perhaps all three.

_He can’t grow his skin because there’s a special ritual._

_**Now** we’re talking. _Jon can almost feel his father leaning greedily forward, grin as sharp as a shark's. _The missing piece._

_It’s called the Blessing. A baby must have a bite of its mother’s skin in order to be able to transform. _

_So he just needs to bite you?_

_Not me. My **Skin**. _Jon’s mother takes a quick breath and adds, _we both have to. The mother takes a bite of her skin and chews it for the baby and feeds it down his throat._

_Flesh creatures, _Jon’s father says with a disgusted scoff. _Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl. Goodbye Jon. Tomorrow will be a special day, won’t it?_

Jon hears the burble and quiet whine of a baby. His stomach lurches, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to bury the nausea. It's a special cruelty, that the only recording of his childhood is _this_.

_Yes,_ Jon’s mum breathes. _**Very** special._

The tape clicks off and Jon shuffles around on his knees to stare up at Martin. In the silence of the room, Jon can’t shake the feeling of his father being there, around him, staring at him, treasuring him. 

“Is that true?” Martin asks, quietly. “The Blessing. Is that real?”

“Mostly. She explained it somewhat differently from how my grandmother always told it to me. I didn’t think the _mother_ had to eat the skin as well. It’s… it’s _supposed_ to be a secret.” Jon hangs his head in shame. Guilt rises through him as he recalls how _careless_ he had been with Elias that first night. 

“If it’s a secret then I suppose it makes sense…” Martin trails off. Jon looks back up at him, and Martin’s eyebrows are bunched tight in concentration, as if he is running through a complicated equation in his mind.

“What makes sense?”

“It wasn’t in the book, is all,” Martin says, with a shrug. “Your father’s book. I thought I knew everything about selkies, but I didn’t know that.”

Jon thinks back to the descriptions of the stages of pregnancy, and the way the book had offered only vague details. There’d been a distinct lack of data on how a selkie grows their skin, which he’d assumed was due to his mother's strength and refusal to spill that secret of their kind. 

“But if she _told_ him…” Martin begins, slowly.

“...Then why wasn’t it in the book?” Jon ignores the pain in his hand as he leaps to his feet and rushes over to the file. Martin peers over his shoulder, but Jon is fully focused on the papers in front of him. Profiles, notes on his mother, pages torn out of journals, Jon pushes them aside in favor of what he _knows_ is waiting for him at the very bottom of the file.

And he finds it, a notice of employee death. _ Alexander Sims and Emma Byrne passed away in a tragic accident._ Attacked, outside the Institute of course, by a wild animal. At the very bottom of the paper is a yellow sticky note, with an address scribbled in pen.

The floor drops out from beneath Jon’s feet and he’s lost in a sudden rush of breathless elation. 

"She’s alive.” Jon looks up at Martin with wide, frantic eyes. “My mother is _alive_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Happy Tuesday! Hope everyone is staying safe. It only took thirty or so chapters, but finally Jon has gotten some good news!! I'm so proud of him. Thank you all for your comments and messages, we adore each and every one of them. Thank you as always to the fabulous OsirisJones/SmallHorizons for helping us out with the chapter, it wouldn't be what it is without your help, Siris.
> 
> We got new art!!! It's gorgeous, please go show it lots of love.
> 
> More from Mugsy in the Magnus Artchives (warning: some of the pieces of art here contain explicit sexual content, please view responsibly): [Assorted Jonelias pieces!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/56369452)
> 
> And a gorgeous piece of feral Jon from maedhros-the-tall: [Look at this adorable angry Jon!](https://maedhros-the-tall.tumblr.com/post/614576077581451264/fanart-for-what-belongs-to-the-sea-you)
> 
> Thank you all for all your support! We're really beginning to come to the end of things here, hopefully before next week we'll have a chapter count estimate up, so we're really excited to have all you lovely people here to share this with. See you next week!!


	33. A Mother's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist meets the archived.

When Jon came to the Institute this morning, it was raining. Drops beat down heavy on the street and rolled fat down the tightly sealed windows of Elias’ car. Down in the tunnels everything is dry, his footsteps kicking up what could be decades of undisturbed dust. But above him, Jon can hear it. The steady staccato beating of the rain. Telling him he’s going the right way, that he’s _out_ from beneath the Institute and under the London streets. A little piece of the ocean, calling him home.

“Are you doing alright?” Martin asks, glancing nervously behind them. He is shining his phone torch ahead to light their way, but the path behind them is lost in darkness.

“Did you mean physically?” Jon asks. “Or emotionally?”

Martin makes a considering noise. “Let’s go with both?”

“My tie to Elias isn’t based on _proximity_. Once, he left me alone in our house for a week, and I felt no pain except what I inflicted upon _myself_.” Jon turns away from the horror in Martin’s eyes. He _can’t_ start processing it all now. It’s already debilitating him, this dreadful slide into the realization that it isn’t humanity that is cruel, it’s _Elias_. That this isn’t the best he could have hoped for. That he could have _had—_ “I haven’t _tested_ it, but I believe the force that’s keeping me locked inside the Institute is more _active_, rather than _passive_. Like holding my leash, but with his mind. But the tunnels are a dead spot for his other abilities, I wouldn’t be surprised if that extends to _this_ as well. You said once before that these tunnels might have other exits. I’ve considered for a while that if those exits _do_ exist, it’s unlikely they’re guarded by Elias in the same way.”

“Why haven’t you gone yet, then? If you thought the tunnels might let you escape.”

Jon wraps an arm around his stomach and bunches his jacket up in his fist. “I didn’t have anywhere to _go_. I have _nothing_ without him. Can’t return to the sea, can’t fend for myself. He’d find me _easily_, or wait for me to crawl back to him. No.” Jon shakes the thought from his head. “This isn’t something I can run away from.”

“How’s your hand?” Martin asks, softly. Jon laughs, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He lifts the hand to stare down at the clean white bandage, the matching twin of the one wrapped around his arm. He is a treasure map of mutilations.

“Elias is a terrible man, but an excellent caretaker.”

“An excellent caretaker wouldn’t treat you _like this_,” Martin snaps, like it’s simple. Like it’s _instinct_. He defends Jon better than Jon knows how to defend himself.

“I suppose so,” he agrees, quietly. They walk in silence, their steps echoing against the rough stone walls of the tunnel. He’s never been out this far before, though they’ve kept their route simple and straightforward in order to be able to find their way back to the Institute again. Martin knows his way through the transportation systems of the city, he’d said that no matter where they emerged he’d be able to find their way to the address. It is still unfamiliar, trusting Martin like this. But simply standing next to him, knowing they’ll be facing whatever happens together, it settles something deep in Jon. Like swimming up, with the _certainty_ you will eventually reach the surface.

“And how are you feeling? Emotionally,” Martin asks, breaking the silence.

Jon rolls his tongue along the bottom of his teeth. “I _want_ to see her.”

“But?”

“But…” Jon pulls at the edges of his bandage with his other hand, worrying it between two fingers. “But what if she doesn’t want to see _me_?”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice balances between comforting and reproving, and Jon closes his eyes to it.

“She didn’t _want_ me. She escaped this place, she went to my grandmother, and she left me behind. Maybe I’m nothing but a bad memory for her, a reminder of that _man_ and everything he did.”

“She risked _everything_ to protect you, Jon. To get you out of that cage and let you grow up free.” Martin looks so certain, so utterly sure that Jon wants to believe that, over what he's known his entire life.

“And look what I’ve done with her _gift_.” Jon stares at the bandage as his hands start to shake. “_Stupid_ enough to get caged again. She’d be ashamed.”

“Hey. Stop that, stop it.” Jon looks up in panic as Martin grabs his hands and tugs him out of his spiral. His hands are so warm where he touches Jon, like sunlight.

“Martin, we _can’t—_”

“Elias can’t see us down here, right?” Martin defiantly laces his fingers into Jon’s and squeezes. 

“N-no, I suppose not,” Jon agrees breathlessly, feeling heat rise into his cheeks as he stares up at Martin’s wide, earnest eyes.

“What’s happening to you is _not your fault_. I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it.” Martin reaches out and holds his hand just shy of touching Jon’s cheek, and Jon leans greedily into it, feeling the smooth slide of Martin’s thumb across his face. “And if your mum can’t see how strong, and kind, a-and _brave_ you are just cause of… just because of circumstances…” 

Martin pulls his hands back and turns away, taking a few steps further down the tunnel. “Well, I won’t let her, is all. You _deserve_ better.”

Jon lifts a hand to his cheek and presses his fingers into the lingering warmth. “Martin?”

“It’s nothing,” Martin says, and even from behind him, Jon can see he’s scrubbing away tears. “Just thinking about my own mum. She’s had a hard life. Not like your mum, of course, nothing nearly as serious but. I _know_ that if we were in the same circumstances, she’d have risked her life to save me as well. I know she would have.”

Jon steps forward and gently slides his hand into Martin’s again. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, holding tight to Jon’s hand like an anchor. But who is anchoring whom, Jon isn’t sure. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

It only takes a few more minutes of walking before they find metal rungs built into the tunnel wall, and when Martin shines his torch upward they can see a manhole cover directly above them.

“As soon as we walk out of here,” Jon says, omitting the _if I can walk out of here_ that echoes anxiously in his heart, “Elias will be able to _see_ us.”

Martin twists his wrist to check his watch. “Five minutes to two.”

“We’re early.”

Martin leans against the wall of the tunnel, sagging a bit. “You’re sure it’s today?”

“Every Thursday, like clockwork. The investors meeting takes about four hours, and he should be focused on it the entire time.” Jon stands next to Martin and taps his fingers anxiously against the ladder rungs. “_If_ we’re lucky.”

“And you’re sure he won’t be able to see us anyway?”

Jon isn’t sure of anything. But he shakes his head resolutely. This is the path he’s chosen, he won’t back down _now_. “He only has _one_ pair of eyes.”

“You should take this.” Martin holds his phone out towards Jon. “While we’re still in the tunnels, you should… you should slip it in a pocket or something. That way if something _happens_, or we get separated, I can contact you.”

“But _you _won’t have a phone,” Jon protests.

“I have a wallet, with money for a payphone, or for fare to get back to the Institute. You’re—” Martin cuts off before the word _helpless_, but it doesn’t stop Jon from hearing it. “You _need_ a phone. Just in case.”

“Okay,” Jon says, ignoring the panicked flutter that rises in his chest at the thought of blatantly disobeying Elias. He’s already come this far. Sneaking out of the Institute, holding Martin’s hand. If he gets caught, his punishment is _probably_ already as bad as it can possibly be. “Okay.”

Martin scales the ladder and shoves aside the manhole cover. Below him, Jon tries not to openly stare at the muscles working in his arms and back. Elias can’t be defeated by strength alone, but even so, knowing Martin has it already makes Jon _feel_ safer. When Martin hauls himself up onto the street, Jon starts up the ladder after him.

Each rung he climbs, Jon’s heart beats faster, his breath coming short and the blood pumping loud in his ears. This is _it_. All the work he has put into organizing this trip comes down to this. He pauses at the top of the ladder, staring up into the gray sky above him.

A raindrop lands on his cheek and slides off. Jon takes a breath, and sticks a hand up through the manhole.

Nothing catches, nothing _restrains_ him. His hand passes through cleanly without any resistance and then Martin grabs it and hauls him the rest of the way through. The rain comes down, soaking into his shoulders and he shivers with the cold and laughs and turns his face up to feel the wind against his skin. He opens his mouth and lets the raindrops slide down his tongue to his throat.

“Is he watching?” Martin asks, and Jon shakes himself out of his reverie to focus on the task at hand. But the eyes that are usually heavy on him are conspicuously _absent_.

“He’s still distracted,” Jon grins, wild and reckless, and grabs Martin’s hand. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

*** 

Jon is nervous. Scratch that, he's more than nervous. He's _terrified_. He and Martin stand at her door, at the address written on the paper now crumpled in his sweaty hand. 

It's a simple enough looking house, nothing off or ominous about it. The gardens are lovely, flower beds and rose bushes with a pair of chairs and a table just to the left of the door. He might even use the word _charming_. 

Inside, the lights are on, and almost as if it's a siren call, he can hear an older woman humming to herself from just inside. The familiar sound makes his heart race. It’s her, he's sure of it.

It's actual _proof_, right in front of him, that his mother isn't _dead_, or some distant, mythical figure, but alive and within reach. He’s going to be able to see her. _Talk_ to her and find out why and how and so, _so_ many other things he's always wanted to know. The _knowledge_ is within reach. _Family_ is within reach. Someone who understands is so, so close and they can talk and—

The thought creeps in, invasive and terrible amidst the joy. A cold sort of _what if._

What if she's been trapped again? What if she got out, merely to lose her freedom for a second time? Is that why he was abandoned and left to be raised by his grandmother and not _her_? Had his grandmother thought she was being kind by keeping the truth from him?

Jon tries to picture it, his life if he’d been raised on the land, here in this home. Him, _human_ in so many ways he can't yet comprehend. His stomach twists just picturing it. He doesn't _want_ to, can't imagine life without the sea, without the home he still isn't sure he'll ever be able to return to. 

Martin reaches out and squeezes Jon’s shoulder, and the knot of anxiety relaxes. Humans can be kind. They can be good and _respectful_. They can learn the truth and still choose to stand by a monster, protect them. Maybe even _more_, given the chance.

When he finally rings the doorbell, he's trembling like a torn sailcloth in the wind. It feels like crossing a threshold, slipping from the present into another time or place. The new reality cements itself when an old woman opens the door. She is older than he pictured, leaning heavily on a cane, with deep-set wrinkles pressed into the corners of her mouth and disappearing behind a pair of black sunglasses. The smell of cooking fish and saltwater hits his senses and tears well in his eyes.

How must he look, a stranger, crying on her doorstep in the rain? Jon is _almost_ regretting it, coming here.

He doesn't hear the first words she says, muffled by a fog of panic and something else swelling like a seatide in his heart. 

"Are...are you my mother?" The words pour out, unbidden and raw. She freezes, seemingly looking him over with an intense, searching expression. She doesn't _look_ how he expected her to, weak and frail, and just so human.

"I’m no one's mother, boyo," the woman says. “Think you got the wrong address?” Her tone is not quite harsh, but it certainly isn't _kind_. He clenches his fist and the paper crumples further. The wrong address. That somehow hurts _more_ than if he'd been rejected. 

Jon glances up to look at her again, desperately, not sure what he wants to ask. Did someone else live here before you? Someone who looks like me? Did she smell like the sea? Did she talk about a boy, her boy, who she left behind?

"Emma, darling, who is it?" Another voice calls from somewhere within the house. His heart swells as he recognizes it.It is the voice from the tapes. It settles over his senses and sinks into those deep, childish places in his soul. She’s here. She’s _real_.

"Cordy, I'm blind, you _know_ I can't tell you that,” the woman on the step turns and shouts into the house. The bickering tone is laced with fondness, that speaks of years of love and companionship behind them. 

"Yes, yes, but you could ask a _name, _at least." 

Another woman approaches the door. She's younger, maybe about twenty years younger. She's drying her hands off with a tea towel absentmindedly as she walks up behind the first woman and then stops dead. It's her, Jon realises, that smells so strongly of the ocean. The scent of saltwater and subtle musk of warm fur rolls off her like a welcoming tide. 

She brushes Emma aside with a gentle grace, and studies him. She lifts her nose and takes in a deep breath, and something in her eyes clicks into place. Like she's found exactly what she's been looking for. 

She sounds as breathless as he feels. "Are you—Jon? _My_ Jon?" She takes a step outside the door, but catches herself on the frame. He nods, a small nervous gesture, and she mirrors it. 

He flinches when she unexpectedly surges forward and wraps her arms around him. She holds him close, clinging like seaweed. He soon relaxes a little, burrowing his face into her shoulder and inhaling the soothing scent of the sea. Beneath it, there is something else, something deeper, more _primal,_ that sings of home and safe and _mother_. It fills an ache he cannot just ignore anymore, a balm on an old wound. 

He realises, with very little surprise, that even his grandmother hasn't shown him this much physical affection in a long time.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands so they just rest awkwardly on her shoulders, fingers itching to do something _more_. He can’t help an odd envy that burns in his heart, thinking Martin would know how to properly hug someone. His mother clearly knows how to hug. But Jon himself is left floundering, unsure, untrained. He lets his hands trail down her back until he can tentatively wrap them around her, pulling her in far more tightly than could possibly be comfortable. But she doesn’t pull away, and finally, Jon lets himself fully melt into her scent and her warmth and her embrace.

Cordelia pulls back a little awkwardly and Jon immediately wishes he could hug her again. Her eyes are shiny with bright tears, but she looks so, _so_ happy. 

Emma seems to sense the subtle tension, and rests a hand on his mother's shoulder. "Why don't we invite the young man in for tea? They must be cold, out in the rain like that."

Jon hears Martin shuffling awkwardly behind him. Cordelia clears her throat half-awkwardly. "My apologies, for not noticing you sooner. Are...are you here to _help_?" 

"Yes," Martin says, fervently, and she studies him for a moment with a sharper expression than she had with Jon. Jon nods and murmurs, "he's… he's safe. Martin's safe. I trust him." 

"Very well. Do forgive my manners, then. But how about the pair of you come in for tea? We can—we can speak more plainly indoors." She steps back and holds the door open for them, and Jon can see that her expression has softened into something more considering.

She leads Jon to the loveseat in the soft, old fashioned living room. Almost all of the room is decorated in shades of blue or green, and he can see the traces of two people and the life they’ve spent together. There are souvenirs, shells, snow globes, and all sorts of little touches that speak of trips to the ocean.

The love seat he's seated on is soft beneath his fingers and he hardly notices when Martin is ushered away by Emma towards the kitchen with promises of tea.

When Jon turns his head, he sees, draped over the other side of the love seat, a seal pelt. The scent of salt is strong and painfully nostalgic. Tears well in his eyes. He wants to reach out and touch it, but he doesn’t dare. In the soft gray fur, he can see delicate patterns in the pelt that he’s seen a thousand times reflected in his grandmother’s coat. In his own coat. There are subtle differences, but those only make it all the more lovely.

It...it has _scars_ on it though, marks clearly made by knives and brands, not just the everyday touches of ocean life. His fingers itch to reach out, but he pulls them back, clenching his fingers into nervous balls. 

Cordelia sits in a nearby chair, looking him over again. She looks like she has a million things to say, judging by the little crinkle between her eyes. Jon finds himself just as speechless, all the little things he had wanted to ask her suddenly run dry. The silence lingers between them.

"Do you want to touch my pelt?" Cordelia asks, and Jon is taken aback at the awkward gentleness in her question. She seems as surprised as he is.

"I-I _couldn't_. It's yours. That-that would be..." he struggles to find the word that encapsulates it all. _Improper_. Wrong, after everything. He doesn't _deserve_ to.

"I _want_ you to. You...look like you need the comfort more than I." The way she says it is like every dream he's ever had of her. The faceless mother who he’d always foolishly believed had cared, even though she’d left him.

When he still doesn't move to take it, she stands up and walks over, picking the skin up herself. She drapes it over him, slowly, as if checking his reactions. He relaxes into it, a peace settling over him. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend he's back in the water, wrapped in his own skin, or sunning himself on his favourite beach after a storm. It's safe, here, like being rocked to sleep in the cradle of soft arms he only now remembers. 

She seems to relax too, a gentle sort of smile settling on her face now, rather than the nervous one. Gently, she tucks the corners up under his chin and behind his shoulders, swaddling him. Her hands look like a mother’s hands should look. 

"How did you find me?" She asks. It's not accusatory, only curious. Jon ducks his head, a little shy. He can't help the surge of panic that rises in him. Maybe she'll kick him out the moment she hears where he came from. Would she yell? Or just be disappointed? 

"I—my hus—I work for the Magnus Institute.” As soon as he says the words, Cordelia stiffens, taking a quick, instinctual step back. Jon’s heart sinks in his chest, but he struggles on, desperate to connect with her. 

"I've been trying to find a way to… to free myself from Elias, my—" He can't bring himself to say the word _husband_, not in front of her, so he skips over the word as if he can ignore it. "Anyway, the last head Archivist...figured out what I am, and left me tapes, and we—that is Martin and I—found a paper about selkies. And the cage."

Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath. He flexes his hand beneath the bandage. "I thought… I thought you were _dead_ for so long. So when we listened to the tapes and found an address with them, I suddenly had _hope_ again. That if you could escape, maybe...maybe _I_ could too."

He finally meets her gaze, where he can see tears shining in them. "I just...wanted to meet you more than anything." 

Jon takes the chance to really look her over, study her. She still looks young, with a few lines and marks that remind him of Elias. Older, but not old, despite the many years that have passed. She looks beautiful, relatively human, with a few little signs of the monster hiding under her skin. Her teeth have the sharp points of a slightly hungry selkie, and her eyes only bear the hint of the overwhelming dark that hints at their nature. She wears long sleeves, but when she shifts he can see the faded remnants of marks around her wrists. 

Cordelia seems to be doing the same, taking him in. She looks so sad, like she wants to reach out and comfort him. His hands are still bandaged, and her gaze settles on those the longest before she meets his eyes. He's more aware than ever of their matching scars when she reaches to touch him, her hand gently resting on his knee. He can feel her warmth bleeding through the coat from the steadying press of her fingers. 

"I've always wanted to meet you too,” Cordelia says, quietly. “I dreamed of you, of what you might be like. My little moon. I had a home though, here, and I didn't want to hold you _back_. I wanted...I wanted what all parents want for their children, I suppose. _Freedom_. The chance to live free from the bars that I had been trapped in." 

"But it seems you were bound to my fate even still. Unblinking to the core, aren’t you? We make quite the pair." Her chuckle is bitter, sad.

The smell of salt and tea and honey surrounds them, and the quiet chatter of voices bleeding out from the kitchen rests over him like a blanket. Jon reaches out and covers her hand with his own.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, fiercely ashamed, "I'm sorry I threw away your gift. That I followed in your footsteps. I was _stupid_. I just wanted to see what they were like up close, beyond merely the times I hunted them for _food_. Curiosity caught me in its net and I just… _couldn't_ resist its lure. I just wanted to _know_. But..._why? _ Why do they do this? Insist on taking us and hurting us like we're nothing but _animals_ and—"

"I haven't been able to figure that out, even after all of this." His mother's voice is soft, secretive, filled with hard earned knowledge. Jon leans in closer to listen. "But...in my time on land, I've met enough kind humans to know that the deliberately cruel ones are not as common as we've been taught. That we can find those kind, loving pearls among them and keep them just as they keep us."

It's a strange sort of thing, looking up to suddenly see Martin and Emma in the doorway, the pair both so human, yet clearly so kind. Martin is blushing, and has tears in his eyes. Jon wonders how much they heard. His mother doesn't move, only accepts the tea Emma brings over for her with the sort of smile Jon wishes he could give someone so freely.

He accepts his from Martin, and it's perfect. Warm and sweet, the scent of lavender lovely on his nose. Martin sits on the loveseat next to him, careful to avoid touching the pelt. He's doing his best not to stare, wavering between politely averting his gaze and openly ogling it. Jon can practically see the question forming on Martin's tongue. 

"Is...is that what yours looks like?"

"Yes," he answers Martin, the hint of a smile on his lips. "With a few differences of course. But you’d have to spend years learning to tell them apart." Jon swallows against the idea of Martin seeing his own skin so intimately, and brushes his hand against the lovely fur of the pelt draped over him. Still knelt in front of him, his mother shakes her head, almost fondly. 

"It's beautiful," Martin breathes, and it doesn't sound possessive, just admiring. That seems to set the women more at ease.

Jon doesn't want to disrupt such a lovely moment with talk of troubles and pain, as much as he knows they eventually must. He wishes he could simply burrow himself into his mother's shoulder, breathe her in, and just _be_. He wants the feeling of arms around him that care. He wants love, without the chains of duty or greed keeping them bound to one another. How does one ask that of someone he's technically only just met? Someone he knows more through her pain than her joy?

Cordelia seems to be working through a similar dilemma. She looks between Jon and Martin, then at Emma. Gently, Cordelia encases Jon’s hand in hers and speaks.

“You’re trapped, aren’t you, Jon.” It isn’t a question. He wouldn’t be here, skinless, if he wasn’t.

“I need your help.” Jon’s voice breaks over the word as he clings tightly to his mother’s hand. 

“Of course, of course, moonlight,” Cordelia lifts a hand and brushes Jon’s hair back gently out of his face. “I’ll come back with you. I’ll tear his throat out and we’ll reclaim your skin together.”

Jon shakes his head too fast, squeezing his eyes shut. “You can’t. He’s too powerful.”

“Never met a man so powerful Cordy couldn’t get her teeth in ‘im,” Emma chimes in with a laugh.

“He’s deep in the ways of the Unblinking. Has us all under some sort of… some sort of contract. Bigger than my skin. If he dies, everyone else at the Institute dies too.” Jon turns miserably to the side and meets Martin’s eyes. “Martin dies too.”

“And so do you,” Martin adds, a bit of force behind the words.

“We _can’t_ kill him,” Jon concludes. “Not while he’s like this. I need another way to get my skin back. That’s why I came… I mean, I _hoped_… you escaped before. I thought you could teach me how to do it as well.”

Cordelia sits back on her heels and glances back at Emma, who grips the armrest her cane rests on. “I know all about the binds the Unblinking wraps around those in its service. It’s not something that can be broken lightly, or simply.”

Cordelia pushes herself up off the ground and scoots Jon over to make room for herself to sit beside him, their thighs pushed up together with the thick blubber of her skin between them.

“When you are a selkie on your own, and cannot rely on another to kill your captor, then you must rely on your wits. The greatest weakness of every human who seeks to cage us is their arrogance. They become accustomed to being the master, to being in control.” Cordelia runs a thumb absentmindedly around the burn scar that rings her wrist. “They don’t expect us to trick them.”

“The Blessing,” Jon breathes out as understanding suddenly dawns on him. His mother hadn’t explained it differently on the tape, she’d explained it _wrong_. On purpose, to make his father think he needed to bring her skin right to her.

Cordelia nods. “He took us both out of the cage for the ritual. He kept the skin firmly in his grasp of course, and after over a year of torture I was far too weak to tear it away from him. But I had the other key resource our captors never expect from us.”

Jon stares at her, desperate for the answer to free him from Elias’ torment. She places a hand on his thigh and squeezes gently. “An ally.”

Across the room, Emma laughs. “I pulled the fire alarm. Stupidly simple solution to free a captive selkie, I know, but in the distraction we had plenty of room to act.”

“That’s what’s most important in the end, Jon. Love was what freed me. Emma’s love and kindness, not wanting to see a person fester away in the cage. My love and trust that she was on my side. Alexander had nothing in the face of that. He knew that I would never love him after what he did to me, that’s why he locked me up in that cage. If he didn’t, he knew I’d simply find my skin and leave him forever. Locking me up was the only way for him to regain control.”

“But,” Jon falters a bit, screwing his eyebrows up tight, “but how would you know where to find your skin?”

"You just have to follow that little tug in your chest. A selkie always knows where their skin is, you just have to listen, my little lighthouse."

Jon stills, something freezing in his chest like an icicle. He's never been able to sense it, not since it was taken. Not since _Elias_. He closes his eyes and reaches out, thinks hard, focuses on the tug in his chest where his link to his skin once was. 

Nothing. Nothing but a cold, empty _pit_. 

"I-I _can't_. Find mine. I haven't been _able_ to sense it since- _since Elias_." It hurts to think that he might be a broken, defunct selkie. He had thought, once upon a time, that he could sense it, but his time with Elias has quickly disproven that. And now, that he knows he should be able to, something in him aches even more.

Martin is so sure and steady when he says, "I'll help you find it. I promised, didn't I? We'll get your skin back for you, no matter what." 

Jon's eyes rest on Martin, a half thought slowly turning in his brain, a quiet understanding settling in. He nods, and he feels warm at the thought of Martin, how much he wants to help Jon. At just how _different_ it feels from Elias' affection.

“No matter what,” he echoes, and in this place, surrounded by warmth and love, it feels like something he can believe in.

“Jon,” Cordelia’s voice grows somber. “I… I need to explain. Why I left you with your grandmother. Why I didn’t raise you myself. You deserve to hear it.”

Jon tenses, his jaw clenching as he sits up straight, preparing himself for the worst.

"I...when I got _out_," Cordelia begins, "you in my arms, and my skin wrapped around me, I knew then and there I did not want you to be landbound. Of course I wanted to hold you, to raise you, but it wouldn’t be fair of me. My heart was here, on land, with Emma, and you belonged to the sea."

Cordelia’s gaze settles on Emma, sipping her tea. "I didn't want you to be raised among humans. I wanted you to be free, in the ocean, the way I grew up." She pulls Jon’s hand up, careful not to put pressure on the wounds, stroking the bare skin with a nearly unbearable gentleness. 

"After what Alexander did to me, I was afraid of what kind of mother I'd be. That my own fears might eat me up and leave you a broken little boy. And...I couldn't _stand_ the thought. Of breaking you, just like I was broken. I can't help but wonder now if that decision was best, in the end. I had forgotten how cruel the sea could be, and just how alluring the call of humanity is."

Her eyes are wet with tears, and Jon’s instincts are screaming that he wants to be touched, to be wrapped in her embrace, to make up for so many lost years. The clank of the teacup as he sets it down in its saucer is too loud. 

Jon closes the space between him and his mother and hugs her. For a moment, she freezes up, but then she melts into him. The tiny piece of doubt in his mind that this might not truly be his mother, that it was all a hopeful delusion, falls silent as soon as she wraps her arms around him and squeezes him as tightly as Jon is holding her. 

She smells like home already. He can still recognize the traces of it in himself, despite his long separation from his coat. It's a strange relief that calms his heart.

They pull away, and he settles at her feet on the floor. He doesn't know why, but it feels safe, like he's a pup again, sheltered. Her hand hesitates over his hair, and it isn't until he leans into it that she relaxes.

The atmosphere of the room lightens after that. The rest of the afternoon is spent in sweet company, over sweeter tea, and eventually biscuits. 

Cordelia and Jon take over the loveseat, the coat draped over both of them. They take turns telling stories, snippets of their interesting, if dangerous childhoods. Emma seems less surprised, but Martin's reactions to some of the scrapes Jon managed to get himself into is golden. Wide-eyed and sometimes just shaking his head at the more wild adventures.

"Life was never easy," Jon admits, from where he's tucked into his mother's arms, "but there was a certain simplicity to it that the land doesn't seem to have." Cordelia nods in agreement, brushing a hand over his hair. 

It never ceases to amaze him how wonderful it feels, the gentle hands of his mother. How much he missed, being raised only by his grandmother. Though he has to admit, hearing about some of the in-betweens, of Cordelia and Emma’s marriage, he can see why his mother stayed behind. If their roles had been reversed, he isn't so sure he could have left Martin and returned to the sea.

Martin does seem to be getting antsy, nervous. Jon realises, with a drop, just how quickly their time is coming to an end here. He cuddles closer, a sigh already on his lips. He doesn’t want to leave his mother. Doesn’t want to leave this _place_ with its warm blankets and warmer teacups. This is the first place he’s been since he washed up on that beach that has actually felt like a home. Like it could be _his _home.

But he has to go. He can’t put her in danger. If Elias found her and brought her back to the Institute after everything she had been through there… it is too cruel to consider. And it would all be _Jon’s_ fault. So he wraps his arms tight around her, burying his face deep in her neck and trying his best to cement the memory of her warm and present and _alive _in his mind. Something just for him, to cling to at night. To beat away the nightmares of her torture with the memory of her salvation.

“Jonathan,” his mother whispers into his ear, rocking him gently back and forth. Being here, in her arms, it reminds him of the childhood memories he’d locked away. “My little dewdrop boy. My beautiful starlight.”

His mother pets a hand down through his hair, gently catching her fingers in the tangles and working them loose. He pushes his face deeper into the crease of her shoulder and tries to pretend that nothing else exists except this moment. No Elias. No Institute. No ocean. Just _this_, here.

But he hears Martin shifting nervously next to the door, checking his watch again. And he has to pull away.

“You can visit us whenever you like.” His mother glances over her shoulder at Martin and smiles. “_Either_ of you.”

“T-thank you, ma’am,” Martin mumbles, a slight blush rising on his cheeks.

“What if I can’t _ever_ come back?” The question slips out of Jon’s mouth before he can catch it, his voice breaking as tears press yet again at the inside of his eyes. “What if I’m trapped forever?”

“You won’t be.” Cordelia takes Jon’s hands in her own and squeezes them tightly together. “You’re a _survivor_. It’s in our bloodline. From your grandmother to me, and from me to you. You are clever, and you are _brave_, and you have found someone _good_ you can rely on. That’s all you need, Jon.”

Jon smiles back, trying to look as brave as his mother and Martin think he is. Just hearing it already makes him feel stronger.

“And if you think of a way to kill the bastard, let us know,” Emma calls from her arm chair, shaking her cane at the air. “We’ll be right there.”

“Or anything else we can do to help,” Cordelia adds.

Jon laughs and pulls his hands away from his mother’s grip to wipe away a rogue tear sliding its way down his cheek. “Thank you.”

Martin holds out a hand and Jon takes it gratefully, letting Martin pull him up off the couch. He doesn’t want to leave, but he feels sheltered at Martin’s side. Cared for. _Loved_ in a way he hadn’t realized could truly exist before today.

Cordelia rises from the couch as well, her skin draped easily around her shoulders like a shawl. She takes Jon’s face in her warm hands and kisses him softly on the forehead. Then she steps to the side and takes Martin’s shoulders, pulling until he leans down enough for her to kiss his forehead as well.

“We’ll see you again,” she says, with so much confidence that Jon cannot bring himself to doubt it.

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

The rain is coming down even harder as they leave the snug little house, still hand in hand. Jon presses into Martin’s side, trying to ward off the chill of the wind. He tilts his chin up and lets the drops splatter against his face and roll down his cheeks. The air smells like plants, the heavy yellow scent of pollen and broken grass. Beneath that, he can smell the sweet, sickly tang of gasoline, the hot swelling of wet pavement, the sharp metallic of steel railings. The surface is full of so many beautiful things. He has barely even _begun_ to scratch the surface.

“We should hurry,” Martin says, and then he is tugging Jon along by the hand as he accelerates to a jog. Jon rushes to keep up with him, closing his eyes against the sting of the rain and letting Martin guide their path. Water slides cold down Jon’s spine, soaking through the thin protection of his jacket and shirt. The wind rushes loud past his ears. He laughs and squeezes Martin’s hand as he shakes his head like a dog, sending water flying everywhere.

This is freedom. 

Jon bumps into Martin’s back as he comes to a sudden stop, face squishing against the soggy wool of his jumper. He peels himself off and looks around. “Why did we stop?”

“Stoplight,” Martin answers, gesturing at an image of a glowing red man across the street from them. “Remind me, Jon, whose idea was it to not bring our coats?”

“It would look too suspicious to be getting dressed to leave!” Jon protests through his chattering teeth. He tosses his head again, trying to flip his rain-soaked bangs out of his eyes.

“You look like a wet cat,” Martin says with a laugh and wraps his arms around Jon to pull him in close to the warmth of his chest. “I figured a _seal_ would be better equipped for a little water.”

Jon is shivering as he glares up at Martin. “Well I’m not exactly a seal right now, am I?”

“Hm, you look a little like a seal to me.” Martin chuckles and lifts a hand to brush Jon’s bangs away from his eyes. “There, _that’s_ better.”

Heat floods through Jon’s body, and all he can think is he wants Martin to do that again. Touch his hair again. Keep holding him close and never let go. He wonders if Martin can read it in his eyes.

“Martin,” Jon whispers, slipping his hands out from between them to rest them gently on Martin’s neck. He thinks he could drown in the way Martin is staring at him, desperate, and just a little nervous, the tip of his nose red with the cold and his breath hot on Jon’s face. Jon shifts his weight a little, rising up on his tiptoes until his nose bumps into the freezing edge of Martin’s. The world feels suddenly _crystallized_, like all the scents and sounds are a thousand miles away. All that is here, in this moment, is Jon, Martin, and the rain dripping from Martin’s eyebrows and landing on Jon’s softy parted lips.

A hand threads itself up into Jon’s hair and _tugs. _Jon screams as he is pulled backward, away from Martin, the pain shooting down from his head to the base of his spine. He barely manages to stay on his feet as he hunches over to follow the hand in his hair.

“Apparently I was being _too lenient_,” Elias spits. His voice is nothing like its usual composed sneer. His words are breathless, as if he can barely form them through his rage. “I forgot you both were _animals_ incapable of following simple instructions.”

“Let him go!” Martin steps forward, puffing out his chest and raising his hands up in front of him.

“No, I don’t think I _will_, Martin. Do you know why?” Elias twists Jon’s hair cruelly and Jon lets out another screech, more animal than human. “Because he is _my _husband. Mine. It’s a very simple concept. You keep your filthy hands off _my_ belongings.”

Jon lashes out, trying and failing to scrape his nails down Elias’ side. In return Elias flicks his wrist and suddenly the invisible cords tighten. Jon freezes mid-swing, his arms quivering in the air as he strains to move them against the compulsion. Around them, he sees people stop and stare at the scene. He watches as they all stand frozen, doing _nothing_.

“You will be dealt with,” Elias hisses. “_Both of you_.” 

Jon can do nothing but whimper in horror as Elias drags his unresponsive body towards the curb and the waiting black car. He stares at Martin, willing him with his eyes to do nothing. To stay where he is and stay _safe_. Martin looks like he’d rather swallow ocean water than stand by while Jon is taken from him, but he knows better. There is _nothing_ he can do.

Elias wrenches the back door open and pushes Jon inside. Jon collides face first with the leather seats and stays there, limp. 

“You and I are going to have a serious talk about _discipline_,” Elias says, and then the car door slams shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Happy Tuesday! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter because it is _checks notes_ about TWICE the length of our normal chapters and it was an absolute monster to write but we're proud of how it turned out! An astute reader who checks our summary may notice something new there: we officially have a chapter count! This is chapter 33 of 36 chapters planned for this epic, which means we are winding up to the oncoming climax! As usual, thank you all for supporting us with your comments and your love, we couldn't do this without you guys and we hope you continue to love it as we reach the end of our plot.
> 
> We've got more mugsy art! It contains artistic nudity, but the art collection as a whole contains NSFW pieces so browse responsibly: [Check that out here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030188/chapters/56726278)
> 
> If you've done fanart or any other kind of fanwork for the series and it hasn't been linked here, it probably means we haven't seen it! Please link it in the comments or send it to us on tumblr so that we can appreciate the amazing talent you guys have! (as always, I'm [@apatheticbutterflies](https://apatheticbutterflies.tumblr.com/) and she's @twodrunkencelestials)
> 
> A huge thanks this week to OsirisJones/SmallHorizons who stayed up til 1am helping us finish beta-ing this monstrosity. You're the bees knees.
> 
> See you all next week!!!


	34. The Scent of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to where he began. Martin finds the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for greater than usual domestic violence, collars, and chains. Please read responsibly.

Jon hits the floor and stays there. He doesn’t want to, he wants to be up and _fighting_, but his body is not his to control. It has not been _his_ body for a very long time.

Elias stands over Jon’s prone form, glaring down at him with a naked rage that Jon has never seen on him. For the first time since he’s known Elias, Jon truly feels like he’s made a decision that _didn’t_ play into the puppet show he’s found himself trapped in. This is an Elias who is _angry_. This is an Elias without a _plan_.

“Do you know what you are?” Elias snarls. “You’re _ungrateful_.”

Jon stares up at him, chest struggling to rise against the physical weight of Elias’ compulsions.

“Was your filthy, pointless little life in the ocean really better than this? Better than everything I have given you? Better than your soft bed, your fancy meals, the human meat I gave you, the presents, the books, your job, your _purpose_?” Elias flings his hands out to encompass the room around them, the beautiful, soft cage that Jon has been drowning in for almost a year. “Were you really so miserable that you had to disobey my _only _request?”

Jon forces his mouth open against the invisible cords wrapped so tightly around him and hisses out a single word. “Yes.”

“Spoiled _beast_.” Elias spits the word at him and then turns aside, setting his leather briefcase down on their bed and flipping open the snaps. “Well it’s your lucky day then, Jonathan. You don’t have to worry about any of those horrible things anymore. You don’t have to _suffer _through another day of comfort.”

The iron collar hits the carpeted floor next to Jon’s head and he feels his heart seize up in his chest.

“No,” he gasps out.

“No?” Elias laughs once, high and sharp and entirely devoid of humor. “_You’re_ the one who’s making me do this. I didn’t _want_ this. I was the one who insisted you could be human, could be treated with _human dignity_, when everyone else wanted to see you as a _dog_. I was the one who loved you, married you, protected you. Did you think you were so entitled to my kindness that you could spurn it over and over again, betray me with another man _in my own Institute_, and I would continue to give it?”

“Your _kindness_?” Jon chokes on the word, snarling. Elias kneels to the ground and grabs the front of Jon’s shirt in one fist, hauling him halfway off the ground until they’re face to face.

“I wanted to do this pleasantly. _Humanely_. You could have _enjoyed_ yourself. But now?” Elias releases his grip and Jon falls to the ground, head bouncing once against the carpet. “You’ve proven that you don’t _deserve_ that.”

Jon strains backwards with every ounce of control he can muster over his body, but it’s hopeless. Elias’ face is hard, devoid of pity, as he unlatches the collar and pushes it forward towards Jon. He wails, high in his throat, feeling the proximity of the iron sparking off his skin. The memory of his mother’s cage searing his hand, and the memory Elias gave him of his mother chained in the Institute, mix and muddle in Jon’s head until they are nothing but a deluge of pain and _fear_ and overwhelming _need_ to get away. Get anywhere, as long as it is _away_.

Jon screams when the iron hits his throat. He can barely hear the click of the lock over the pain pulsing loud in his ears. He brings his hands up instinctively to try and rip the collar off, but he can’t grip it with his fingers without _burning_ them as well. Elias stands again, taking a step back to stare down at Jon as he writhes on the ground in helpless agony.

“I do not make _empty threats_,” Elias says, and Jon clings to his words, desperate to focus on anything other than the rolling waves of fire crashing over him. “I trust you see that now.”

Elias reaches for his briefcase again and Jon shuts his eyes to it, losing himself in the agony. He can barely hear Elias’ footsteps and the clink of more iron over the rush of his own blood pounding in his ears.

What does Elias want from him? If Jon told him he loves him, would that be enough at this point to stop the torment? Or is he waiting for Jon to beg? Apologize and cry and plead for mercy? Would Elias even believe him if he promised to be _good_, to listen and obey? Or does Elias know as well as Jon does that it’s too late? Jon will _never_ give him the satisfaction, and he will never love him. Not now that he knows what love _truly_ is.

Jon surfaces from the pain for a moment to register that Elias is kneeling beside him again. His fingers against Jon’s skin are _blessedly_ cool as he stuffs a cloth into the space between Jon’s neck and the iron collar. He can still feel the heat through it, but it is a distant throbbing. Able to be pushed to the back of his mind. Elias grabs him by the chin, fingers digging into the meat of Jon’s cheeks, and forces him into eye contact. He waits until Jon blinks away the haze and _focuses_.

“Now. You’re going to tell me where you _were_.”

Jon blinks hard against the low-level shocks of pain still branching out from his spine, pounding against his skull. “You don’t _know_?”

Elias frowns, clearly loath to admit a moment of weakness. “I’m giving you an opportunity to _tell_ me.”

Jon chuckles against his pain. He feels like his mother, nearly fearless in the face of her captor. “Why would I _ever_ tell you that?”

“Collars are for _animals_, Jon.” Elias runs his hand through Jon’s hair, curling his fingers into a loose fist within it. “Prove to me that you’re the intelligent creature I always saw you as. Act _logically_. Answer me _willingly_, and maybe you’ll earn back your dignity. If you refuse, well. We both know I can just take it from you.”

“Then take it.” Jon’s face tightens in rage. “Because I’m not giving you a _single piece more_ of me.” 

“Why _must_ you make everything difficult, Jonathan?” Elias sighs, but his grip tightens cruelly in Jon’s hair, tipping his head back. Jon strains to keep glaring at him from the bottom of his eyes. He focuses on the throbbing pain in the back of his head and sharpens it into a wall. Thinks blank. Thinks _nothing_. Thinks _**get out**_. Slowly, Elias’ expression goes from bored, to focused, to angry, to _confused_, and settles back on enraged.

“Stop that,” he snaps, roughly shaking Jon by his hair. “Stop _resisting_.”

“I _told_ you,” Jon pants out, exhausted by the energy of focusing his thoughts against Elias’ intrusion. “I’m not giving you _anything_ ever again.”

Elias relaxes his grip on Jon’s hair and relaxes his power pressing into Jon’s mind, and Jon slumps forward. He looks up as Elias cups his cheek tenderly. “How you’ve grown.”

Jon takes in a deep breath, pushing past the muted burning of the collar to focus all his efforts on forcing _power_ into a single question. “**Where is my skin?**”

Elias shivers as the compulsion rolls through him, but his smile never wavers. “Oh, Jon,” he says, his voice dripping with faux pity. “That’s _not_ the question you should be asking.”

Jon snarls, drawing his lips back from his teeth. “I’m going to find it.”

“Even if you _did_, it would do you no good.” Elias pets Jon’s face with a condescending air. Each time his fingers stray near his mouth, Jon wants to snap at them. “You can’t kill me without killing your _precious _Martin. And you can’t leave my Institute either, you’re in far too deep. Isn’t it funny, Jon, the way _every_ decision you’ve ever made has only entangled the two of us more and more?”

“Every decision _you’ve _ever made,” Jon snaps. “I didn’t choose any of this. You’ve _always_ been pulling the strings.”

“You are _mine_." Elias says, firmly, and Jon is sick to death of hearing that. "You belong to me in every _facet_ of your being. I know what is best for you.”

“_When_ I get my skin back,” Jon sits up on his knees, glaring Elias down at eye level, refusing to back down. “I may still _be_ the Archivist. But I won’t be _your_ Archivist. I will belong to the Eye, and I will be with _Martin_, and won’t that just eat you up inside.”

Something twitches deep in Elias’ eyes, and for a moment Jon believes it might be worry. Elias pushes himself to standing and brushes off his hands, staring down at Jon with a cool, impassive gaze.

“You may be strong enough to resist me. But I doubt poor Martin is. I’ll simply have to take up the issue with him.”

“No!” Jon tries to lunge at Elias, but he is stopped short by the collar, the iron pressing into his windpipe and choking him. He turns around in horror to see a chain extending from the back of his collar and locking securely around the bedpost of their bed. He turns back to Elias with wide, _horrified_ eyes.

“You’ll stay here and be good until I return,” Elias says, and there’s no doubt in his words. Jon _will_ be good. What else can he be, collared and leashed and helpless to stop him?

Still he rages, he screams and _claws_ at the air as Elias walks away from him, until he hears the door shut and he sinks to the ground in a puddle of misery and throbbing pain.

***

The train ride back to the Institute is _excruciating_. Martin can’t stand just sitting there, doing nothing, so he stands, pacing up and down the length of the car. He’s sure the other passengers must think he’s insane, but no matter how much he moves he just can’t shake the image of Jon, helpless and _frozen_, being dragged away by Elias with terror in his eyes. The silent, desperate plea from Jon, for Martin to do nothing, to stand by and _let_ it happen. And Martin _had_. Jon had been taken from him, when he’d been right there a moment ago, warm and _smiling_ in his arms. A spot of sunlight in the rain. And maybe even—

Martin scrubs his hands vigorously over his face. He _can’t_ be thinking about this, he needs to be looking forward. Figuring out his next move. Figuring out the safest way to get Jon away from Elias.

Martin pats his pockets for his phone before he remembers giving it to Jon. Hope surges in his chest. Maybe he still has it. _Maybe_ Martin can get in contact with him.

Martin takes the steps out of the Underground station two at a time, nearly bowling over a few small children as he rushes towards the Institute. He _has_ to get to a phone. He bursts through the doors into the atrium and heads straight for the trapdoor down to the archives. A few workers look up at him oddly, probably wondering why he’s sweaty and running, and he’d prefer his conversation with Jon be as private as possible. He wouldn’t want anyone overhearing details of Jon’s situation. 

Private.

Martin stops halfway down the steps to the archives. With _Elias_ around, how can he guarantee _privacy_? If he were to find out that Jon has a phone on him, he would certainly take it away, and with it, take away Martin’s only form of contact with Jon. Worse, he might punish _Jon _for it. _Hurt_ him. The image of Jon’s terrified face fills Martin’s head again and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. Not again. He _can’t_ let that happen to Jon, especially when it was _Martin_ who gave him the phone in the first place.

“Martin?” Martin is ripped out of his reverie by Tim staring up at him from the bottom of the steps. Tim turns around and glances towards where the entrance to the tunnels rests. “You’re back late. And from the wrong direction.”

“Tim!” Martin all but sobs out his name as he rushes down the rest of the steps. “I need your help.”

Tim sets down the folder he was carrying and braces his hands against the sides of Martin’s arms. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

“He _took_ him.” Martin brings up a hand to rub over his eyes and is almost surprised to see that he actually _is _crying.

“Who?”

“_Elias_. We took too long and he found us and he grabbed Jon and it was _awful. _It was horrible Tim, the look on his face. He was so _scared_.”

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Tim rubs his hands up and down Martin’s arms and it feels unfairly comforting and warm against his rain-chilled skin. Jon’s the one who needs this right now, _not_ him. _He_ needs to be the one figuring out how to _fix_ this.

“Jon had _told_ me before, he’d told me about how Elias could control him, force him to stop moving.” Martin lets Tim slowly guide him to a chair and sits down heavily, his knees shaking as the words tumble out of him. “But it was so much _worse_ to see it happen. He was trapped inside his own body, like a doll. And I couldn’t do _anything_.”

“It’s not your fault.” Tim presses his hands down tight against Martin’s shoulders. “This isn’t _your_ fight. They live in a world of _monsters_ and _bullshit_ and it’s better to _not_ get involved at all.”

“But it _is_ my fight!” Martin sniffles and reaches up to cover one of Tim’s hands with both of his own. “It’s both of our fights. Didn’t you tell me that you joined the Institute to try and _protect_ people from the monsters out there?”

Tim screws up his face and looks away. Too many expressions flicker their way across his face, and Martin doesn't have the time to decode them right now.

“Well, Jon _is_ people. And he needs our help.”

Tim sighs with an overexaggerated gusto, his chest and shoulders collapsing as he exhales. He looks over at Martin and shakes his head once, mournfully. “You love him, don’t you?”

“I do,” he answers with a nod. For once, the buzzing warmth in Martin’s cheeks doesn’t overwhelm him, it simply settles into a brightly burning confidence deep in his chest. “But that’s _not_ important. What’s _important_ is he needs help, and he _deserves_ help, and _we_ can help him.”

Tim slides his hands up from Martin’s shoulders to grip the sides of his neck and he pulls him forward just a bit. He leans in and presses his lips into the side of Martin’s head, lingering there in the kiss for a moment before pulling back.

“Okay,” Tim says. “What do you need me to do?”

***

Martin hunches over Tim’s phone screen, tapping it intermittently to keep it from going to sleep. He doesn’t even know for sure that Elias will be coming back to the Institute today, but he can’t relax for even a _moment_. Tim won’t be able to keep Elias distracted forever. Martin has to make use of _every_ second.

It feels odd, sitting in Jon’s chair, at Jon’s desk. He’s pulled the corded phone over so that it sits directly in front of him, covering up whatever statement Jon had been pretending to work on that morning before they made their escape. It feels like a lifetime ago, now, the warmth of that house, of Jon's _family_, already dissipated, washed away by the cold rain of Elias. 

For a moment, Martin lets himself think about that last moment before Elias showed up. The one where he and Jon were face to face, moments away from each other. What might have happened if nothing had interrupted them? What had Jon _wanted_ to happen?

Martin nearly jumps at the ping of Tim’s text tone. He rushes to grab it and open the message from an unknown number.

_Elias is walking up the steps. Alone._

Martin dives for the phone and types in his own cell number, pressing the receiver greedily to his ear as if he could make Jon pick up faster. Each trill of the line ringing drives Martin’s heart rate higher. What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he can’t? What if he’s hurt, or dead, or Elias found the phone and took it away from him? What if Elias locks him up somewhere far away and Martin never sees him again?

The line clicks and Martin holds his breath.

“Hello?”

It’s Jon’s voice, and Martin can barely suppress the sob of relief caught in his throat. He _can’t_ get sappy now, he has to stay focused. He has to be strong for Jon. “Oh thank god, you still have my phone.”

“Martin?” Jon says, and suddenly Martin can hear that there is an awful _aching_ pain in Jon’s voice. Like he’s been flayed open and baked in the sun. A rush of anger floods up from Martin’s stomach and sizzles in his scalp.

“What did he _do_ to you?”

Martin hears the quiet sound of Jon parting his lips nervously. “He put a collar on me. An iron collar.”

Martin stands up from the desk like a shot and slams his hand down onto it. His palm stings from the impact, but Martin ignores it. “I’m coming.”

“No.” The word is hardly more than a whisper, and is almost entirely drowned out by the sound of a rattling chain.

“Jon, I’m not going to just—”

“You _can’t_ help me,” Jon rasps out, and Martin feels a surge of helplessness begin to rise in his chest. Just like when he’d watched Jon be dragged away from him. Useless then, useless now. “As long as he has my skin there’s _nothing_ you can do. Even if you break me out he’ll just take me back and lock me up again. And he’ll _hurt_ you.”

Martin slowly sinks back down into Jon’s chair, the leather beneath him soft from long use. The phone line is silent for a while, except for Jon’s soft breathing. Martin closes his eyes tight, imagining he's there. 

“He’s coming to you now,” Jon says.

“I know. Tim’s holding his attention so that he can’t overhear this conversation.” Martin lets out a bitter laugh. “Just one pair of eyes, right?”

“He wants to know where we went. He didn’t see us visit my mother.” Martin's can't help but sigh with relief at Jon's words, murmured like a secret.

“I won’t tell him,” Martin promises quickly, though he hopes Jon already knows that. “I would _never_.” 

“You may not have a _choice_.”

Martin’s hand on the receiver starts to shake. He can’t have come this far for _nothing_. “Please, Jon. Please tell me there’s _something_ I can do.”

On the other end of the line, Jon is silent. A feeling of despair settles around Martin’s shoulders. 

“Please tell me I’m going to see you again,” Martin whispers, eyes slipping shut. 

“He’s done this before,” Jon says, finally, slowly. “Locked me up in the house. Refused to let me leave. This is how it _always_ used to be.”

“What changed?” Martin's eyes snap open, and he grips the receiver with both hands, pressing it tight to his ear. His knee bounces anxiously beneath him.

“I was attacked. Elias’ ex husband is a monster, just like him, and he’s _jealous_ of me. He showed up at our house and tried to hurt me. Elias realized it wasn’t safe to leave me alone.” 

There is a sort of numbness to Jon's speech, like it's the strange remnants of a hollow victory. 

“He showed up at your house?”

“I think he has a key. He and Elias have a _lot_ of history, they know everything about each other. Peter has been _furious_ ever since Elias chose me over him.” Martin hears Jon give a soft, pained whine, and he wishes he could be there, comforting him.

Tim’s phone dings again. _Couldn’t hold him. He’s on his way._

“Jon I have to go,” Martin says quickly, the words pressing together. “Tell me his name. The ex husband.” 

He hears Jon makes a brief, confused noise, as Martin peeks over at the office door with a building terror. “Peter Lukas. His name is Peter Lukas.”

“Ah, Martin. _There_ you are.”

Martin slams the phone down and whips his head around. Elias stands, framed in the doorway to Jon’s office, wearing a cold smile that doesn’t even _begin_ to approach his eyes. He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him, and immediately Martin’s heart starts _racing_ like a cornered rabbit.

“You know, Martin, I just had the most interesting conversation with Timothy upstairs.” 

“Did you?” Martin says, trying to make it sound conversational, rather than scared.

“Yes, it was a lot of blather and talking in circles around a subject that simply didn’t seem to exist.” Elias taps his chin with one slim finger. “Almost as if _someone_ had sent him there to talk to me merely to buy themselves some time.”

Martin stiffens, gripping the edge of Jon’s desk tight as he tracks Elias’ slow progress across the room.

“Don’t worry,” Elias says, “I know that what happened isn’t _your_ fault. My Jonathan can be _quite_ alluring. It’s not your fault he got you mixed up in his misguided escape attempt.”

“You can’t keep him locked up forever.” Martin slams his palm down on the table, his bravery finally asserting itself.

“Can’t I?” Elias raises one eyebrow in a perfect expression of disbelief. “I seem to be the only one around here doing my _job_. Jonathan is a _monster_, and it is our duty to study them.”

Martin can’t help but audibly scoff. “As if you know _anything_ about Jon.”

“Ah, I see.” Elias comes to a stop just behind the chair in front of Jon’s desk and rests both his hands on the back of it, leaning forward with a terrifyingly genial smile. “This is the part where you teach me all about the _power of love_, is that right? Where you tell me that, despite being his _constant_ close companion, sharing every meal, sharing every evening, sharing a _bed_, you know my husband better than _I do_ because, what, you have some kind of pure-hearted fairytale _connection_?”

Martin swallows and leans backward in his chair. He wants to look away, but he can’t seem to tear himself away from Elias’ frostbite gaze. 

“You think you _love _him, Martin? You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Tell me, when you’ve whisked him off to your happy ending, do you think you’ll be able to _provide_ for him? Will you kill people to keep him _fed_? It’s all sunshine and rainbows dreaming about rescuing the princess, isn’t it Martin, but when you get it home and lift the veil, are you prepared for the _monster_ that’s there?” The chair scrapes across the ground as Elias drags it to the side and steps past it, approaching Martin until nothing stands between them but the uncertain bulwark of Jon’s desk. “You think I don’t love him, but I _do_. I’m just also _realistic_. I know how to handle him, unlike you. I have the _perspective_ you lack. I have plans for Jon larger than you could _conceive_ of.”

“If you really _loved_ him you wouldn’t hurt him. You wouldn’t _treat_ him like this!” Martin stumbles to his feet and retreats behind Jon’s chair, holding it in front of him like a shield. 

“That is a _child’s _conception of love.”

“You know that if you gave Jon the ability to choose he’d _leave_ you. _That’s_ why you have to lock him up all the time. He doesn’t love_ you_.” Martin's voice is quivering, but his conviction is stark, bold and upfront, anger colouring the words.

Elias shrugs, the accusation rolling off his shoulders like a mild inconvenience. “Maybe he doesn’t. It’s of little concern to me. I have all the time in the world to wait until he _does_. When he has no other options, he would _gladly_ learn to love me. It’s much more _pleasant_ than the alternative.”

“Your time is _running out_.” Martin tightens his grip on Jon’s chair and forces his voice to stop shaking. He glares Elias down with a confidence that’s only mostly feigned. “Jon has allies. And _you_ have enemies.”

“Enemies?” The corner of Elias’ mouth quirks up with a split second flash of amusement. “I wouldn’t think so _highly_ of yourself.”

Martin bristles. “I wasn’t talking about _myself_. There’s plenty of people who don’t like you being with Jon. Powerful people. You can’t resist us all.”

Elias stares at Martin, clearly caught off guard. Martin almost lets the momentary victory get to his head before Elias’ mouth splits into a wide grin. Elias braces himself on the desk as he starts to laugh, doubling over, unable to keep his head up against the laughter wracking his frame. When he finally regains his composure he looks up at Martin with an expression of pure, awful _glee_.

“Are you talking about _Peter?_” Elias can hardly get through the name before he is laughing again and Martin has to admit, it’s not filling him with confidence over his brand new plan. Elias breathes in deeply, trying to regain his focus. “You think _Peter Lukas_ will turn against _me_?”

“He hates you,” Martin tries to argue, but he can’t help the way his words sound. Like a petulant child fighting a losing battle.

“Oh, Martin, don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s actually a rather _good_ plan.” Elias stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a cellphone. The look he gives Martin as he dials sinks Martin’s heart into somewhere near the vicinity of his kneecaps. “You’ve been _quite_ the distraction recently. Perhaps introducing you to Peter would be for the _best_ after all.”

“W-wait.” Martin tries to take another step back, but he bangs into the wall. He can hear the line ringing from where he stands, and the click of it picking up feels like a gun being cocked. 

“Ah, Peter? I have a young man here who’d _very much_ like to meet you.” Elias smiles at Martin as the edges of a voice, tinny and indistinct, bleed out into the room around him. “Yes, he requested the introduction _himself_.”

Martin slowly becomes aware of the fact that he cannot feel his toes. When was the last time he could? Was it before or after Elias started dialing Peter’s number? There is a hazy mist pooling across the floor, it catches on the feet of Jon’s desk and swirls in mind numbing patterns. The click of Elias hanging up cuts through the room like cracking ice.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to it, Martin. I don’t much enjoy the ambiance Peter brings with him, avoid it when I can. This truly has been a _productive_ conversation.” Elias’ smile is a crocodile’s grin, wide and sharp and cruel. “Don’t worry, I doubt he will keep you _forever_.”

Martin doesn’t have a chance to ask Elias what he _means_ by that before the door clicks shut behind him and he is left in Jon’s office, cold and entirely _alone_.

“Martin, is it?”

Martin turns to face the voice slowly. He isn’t sure if it’s the chill settling deep into his bones, or if he’s merely reached his threshold for anxiety and can hold no more. Whatever Peter is, it _cannot_ be worse that Elias, and that certainty lends him an odd comfort.

The man is simultaneously _exactly_ what Martin expected, and _nothing_ like it at all. He’s older, his coarse, graying hair and thickly muscled arms speak to a lifetime of labor, but his perfect ivory smile betrays a wealthy upbringing. He looks _entirely _in his element, his eyes exactly the same swirling gray as the fog wrapping comfortably around his calves. If it wasn’t for the way his very presence makes Martin’s hair stand on end, he might have passed him on the street without giving him a second thought. He’s just so _normal_.

“I have to admit,” Peter says, “I don’t have very many people asking to meet _me_. It’s gratifying to hear that I’m that well known. Have you read my statements?”

“Jon told me about you.” Martin’s voice echoes around him strangely, and it fills him with an odd melancholy. Like he’s forgotten how to exist. He’s fuzzy on the edges, his body a distant, unfamiliar thing. 

Peter purses his lips and lowers his eyebrows. “Oh. The _dog_.”

“He’s a person,” Martin snaps. But Peter simply shrugs, unimpressed.

“If you insist. You sound _just_ like Elias, jumping to the defense of that wild beast. You know, that thing nearly bit my whole arm off. You might want to amend some of those fantasies about kissing it to have much _bloodier_ endings.” Peter smiles, and it is equal parts friendly and empty. “Unless of course, you’re _into _that sort of thing.”

Martin thinks that perhaps he should be embarrassed, but the emotion slips through his fingertips. Just out of reach. “Well, maybe Elias is _right_. Just this once.”

“According to him, he _always _is.” Peter shakes his head and clucks like an aggrieved housewife. “And the rest of us just have to tag along in his wake.”

“So this is what you _do_?” Martin asks, shivering once as the cold finally seeps entirely under his skin. Focus, he has to stay _focused_. “Just show up when Elias snaps his fingers and do whatever he asks?”

Peter frowns and crosses his arms. “I’d rather we call it a mutually beneficialpartnership. We _both_ get something we want.”

“So, he gets rid of me…” Martin trails off, considering, quiet.

“And I get to watch the hope fade from your eyes as you realize you might never see your precious selkie again.”

Peter grins and the fog leaks from the corners of his mouth like drool. The cold presses in, past Martin’s bones and down into the core of him, and suddenly he realizes he should be afraid. Where is he? He looks about and the office is still there but it is muted, like he is trapped in the old black and white TV from when he was growing up. Somewhere, faraway, he can hear the quiet sounds of waves crashing against a beach. The salty smell of the ocean wafts around him, threatening to distract him and drag him away. 

“H-hold on. Wait,” Martin gasps out, trying not to sound desperate. “I think we can _help_ each other.”

“Well now this _is _unusual.” Peter takes a step forward and pops his hip up on the corner of Jon’s desk, resting his weight there. “But I’m afraid you simply have _nothing_ to offer me.”

Martin feels his resolve beginning to slip from him and dissolve into mist. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

“You’re very cute, Martin, and I must admit, I’m impressed by your tenacity, but I already have _everything_ I need. I’m rich, and I have enough power to accomplish whatever I wish.” Peter casts a critical, chilly eye up and down Martin. It reminds him very much of his mother. “You are _nothing_. Simply human.”

“You don’t have _everything_ you want,” Martin pushes, thinking of Jon, trapped in that house that maybe Peter once lived in. “You don’t have _Elias_.”

Peter’s eyes go hard and cold, mixing and mingling with the air around them until Martin can no longer focus on them, his gaze slipping straight off.

“You don’t know _anything_ about me and Elias. We’re connected in ways you can’t even _fathom_.”

“_That’s_ why seeing him with Jon hurts so much, isn’t it?” Martin understands that. The pain of seeing Jon with someone else, just out of reach.

“A _momentary_ dalliance at best.” Peter grits his teeth.

“If you help me, you’ll never have to see them together _ever_ again.” Martin takes a step towards Peter and Peter retreats, pulling his arms tight into his chest as if afraid Martin might reach out towards him. “If you help get Jon’s skin back, he’ll never go _near_ Elias ever again.”

“Why lift a finger when I know eventually Elias will come fleeing back into my arms? We’re meant for each other. He will _always_ come back to _me_.” Peter's voice is hard, like ice, but Martin can hear the metaphorical _crack_.

“Why _wait_ when you could have him back immediately?” Martin advances again, pushing through the fog, trying to close the distance Peter keeps putting between them.

“I’d risk making him angry.”

“So what, you’re _scared _of him?” Martin demands, incredulous. He can see Peter is off-balance, and it sparks a bit of warmth that keeps him going.

“Of _course_ I’m not.” Peter stumbles another step backwards. His presence that had seemed so large and imposing is crumbling in front of Martin’s eyes.

“Then what? Why _refuse_?” Martin throws his arms out to the side, feeling the fog shrivel away from the heat of his rage. “You’re acting like you don’t _want_ Jon away from Elias.”

The words bounce against each other, echoing off the invisible corners of this lonely place and returning to Martin again and again. Peter’s eyes slide to the side, staring towards the door of Jon’s office, where Elias had just disappeared. He re-settles his coat nervously over his shoulders and it sends a waft of thick, salt-scented air brushing past Martin’s face.

“You smell like the _sea_.”

Peter snaps his head back to Martin, panic curling through the fog of his eyes. “I’m a sailor,” he says, _too_ quickly.

Realization blossoms in Martin’s chest with a red and twisting rage. How long has Jon been kept running in circles, like a hamster on a wheel? How long have they been _trapped_ in this pathetic pantomime?

“It’s _here,_” Martin hisses.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today.” Peter turns, his coat kicking up the fog around him. “Pleasure to meet you, Martin.”

Martin lunges for him, arms outstretched, but he hits the wall of Jon’s office with a _thud_, the fog vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared, and Peter vanishing with it. Martin balls one hand into a fist and slams it against the wall, his whole body _shaking_ with adrenaline.

He was so _close_, and he let it slip through his fingers. But now he knows where it is. Jon’s skin. And it won’t be long before he gets it _back_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now! Things sure are heating up!! Jon's locked up like a princess in a tower, but Martin knows where his skin is now, and I have a funny feeling that hell and high water won't be enough to keep him from his boy. But who knows! Guess you'll have to wait until next week to find out!! Big shoutout to you clever readers who already guessed that Jon's skin was in the lonely, Jess and I saw you and we were absolutely thrilled!!! Feel free to leave a comment bragging about your ability to pick up on foreshadowing, because we'd love to hear who guessed and how XD
> 
> Thanks as always to OsirisJones/SmallHorizons for the beta on this chapter, and thank you to everyone new and old who left us comments. Getting a chapter out to you guys every week can be pretty stressful, but it's your kind words and love for the story that really carry us through. Hopefully you'll stick with us and continue enjoying as we reach the climactic conclusion of our tale!
> 
> See you guys next week!


	35. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Attempted self harm, graphic violence, minor gore

Sometimes, in his quieter moments, Jon likes to reflect on his life. And he has plenty of time for reflection, curled up in a miserable heap on the floor of the room he has shared with Elias for the past year.

He thinks about Elias, his _husband_, his caretaker. The image of Elias’ soft, placating eyes is easier to call up in his mind than that of his own face remembered from glimpses in mirrors. Way back in the beginning, Elias had taunted him. Told him that the world was nothing but _cages_ for him, for a creature who wears its own collar. And Jon had almost _believed_ him. But now, with cold iron wrapped around his throat, he knows what a cage _truly_ is. It is twisted words and flawed intentions and the kind of love that desires to _own_ and not to _grow_.

It only took getting out into the world, meeting _Martin_ and his selfless nature, seeing the life his mother had built for herself, to see that Elias offers _nothing_ but chains and empty promises.

_Maybe_ it would have been an easier life to stay happily in the cage Elias built for him. He had already begun to think of the bed as _theirs_. Warm kisses and soft ignorance of the fact that freedom and love are inextricable, like sea and sky, like air and lungs. But that’s not the life Jon _wants_. It’s not the path he’s ever wanted. And now that he knows better, he cannot ever close that door again.

Jon pushes himself up to his hands and knees and crawls along the ground, his leash metering out chain behind him as he goes. It only barely reaches far enough to let him grasp at the drawer in his nightstand. He tugs and tugs until the entire drawer pops loose and spills its contents scattershot across the carpeted floor.

A box of tissues.

A thin gold bracelet.

A tub of hand cream.

A pair of nail clippers.

And a book, slim and beautiful and bound in blue leather.

Jon takes up the blue book, turning it so that the gold embossing catches and shimmers in the light. _Folktales of the Sea_. Perhaps it could have been a warning all those months ago, if he had let himself drown in the paranoia and hatred his grandmother had raised him in. If he had truly despised all humans, he would _never_ have let Elias get close to him. Would _never_ have climbed onto Salaesa’s ship. Jon runs a finger down the golden grooves of the frozen waves, crashing against the cliff. He eases open the cover, and reads the smooth cursive penned inside.

_For my Jonathan. From the instant we met, I knew I wanted you._

But his grandmother is wrong too. Jon leans back against the side of the bed, the chain pulling him taut back towards the foot of the bed where Elias has leashed him. The answer is not the waves, _cold_ and lonely, and it’s not the starkly barren, cruel cliffs of the land, with their endless restrictions and expectations. There is a life in between. There is a life with _books_, and tea, and _open skies,_ and a pelt slung casually over the back of a loveseat. 

Jon sees it now. The in between. All he had dreamed of as a youth.

The bandages wrapped around his fingers are starting to unravel as he dips them beneath the fabric pressed between the iron collar and the back of his neck. He feels the burn of the iron each time his fingers slip, and he’s _sure_ he won’t be able to hold a pen right tomorrow with the dotted scars along his knuckles. That is, if Elias ever lets him go back to work ever again. Perhaps he will make true on the promise in his words every time he calls Jon _his _Archivist. Kept at home. For _personal use_ only.

Jon’s fingers finally snag the clasp of his necklace and he unhooks it, letting the small glass charm slide down his chest and stomach, coming to rest at the crease of his hips beneath his shirt. When Elias had given this to him on their wedding night, Jon had thought it might be the most beautiful thing in the world. Holding it up now, the daintily pressed flowers colored golden by the light reflecting in the glass, he wonders if this is how Elias sees him. Something _beautiful_ and delicate that can only be appreciated when it is preserved in perfect stasis. 

“You know, Elias,” Jon says aloud, trying to _know_ through the dull ache of pain if somewhere, wherever he is right now, his husband is listening. Each word makes his throat press painfully closer to the iron held barely off his skin. “I think I _know_ my nature now.”

Jon lowers the necklace into the spine of the book and closes it firmly. He won’t need it ever again. 

“You said once that it was _obedience_, but you’re _**wrong**_.” Jon sets the book back on the ground and leans forward to pick up the tiny, silver nail clippers. “Selkies can transform themselves. We don’t belong to either the sea _or_ the land. We are transitional. We are _free_.”

Jon’s fingers tremble a bit as he slides out the small blade for cleaning beneath nails and lifts it until it is level with his eye. It hovers, a blur of gray, too close for his eyes to focus on.

“My nature is _change_,” Jon breathes out, trying to steady his nerves. He is _done_ being Elias’ doll.

Behind him, the door to the bedroom slams open, and Jon tries to swallow his fear and just _do it_ before Elias can stop him and bind him even tighter, take away his hands, take away his _tongue_, take away _**everything**_.

But then— “Jon?”

And Jon drops the clippers as tears come hot and fast to his eyes and he scrambles to his knees to see over the bed, to see Martin, whole and _unhurt_ and real, standing in the doorway.

“_Martin_.” Jon’s voice cracks over the name as he dissolves into desperate tears. He hadn’t thought he had any left to cry, but they come so easily as the knot of _I might never see Martin again_ in his chest cracks, and the grief it had been hiding pours out like a torrent beneath his skin.

Martin rushes towards him and wraps him up in his arms and he is warm and _safe_ and _all_ _encompassing. _Jon burrows his face tight into the darkness of Martin’s chest and for a minute he doesn’t have to think about _anything_ at all.

All too soon, Martin pulls away, taking a firm hold of Jon’s shoulders and keeping him at arm’s length. His eyes look like flint, a strike away from setting flame.

“I’m getting that collar off you,” he says, and it's a promise, warm like sunlight for just an instant.

Reality comes crumbling down on Jon like a rainstorm. “Martin, _no_. I told you not to come here. I told you it’s _dangerous_, I can’t watch Elias hurt you, I can’t, _I can’t_.” 

“Jon, it’s okay.” Martin rubs soft, comforting circles with his thumbs on Jon's trembling shoulders, and that only makes him cry _more_.

“No.” Jon shakes his head violently, the tears slipping messily off his chin. “No, I can’t _lose_ you. _Please_, Martin.”

“Hey.” Martin catches Jon’s chin and stops his movement, tilting his face up gently, so gently, until Jon is forced to make blurry, bleary eye contact with him. There is strength there, and a gentle confidence. “Do you trust me?”

“_Yes_.” The answer tumbles out before Jon can think. Inevitable. _Honest_. Only a few months ago, Jon would have found the idea of trusting anyone to be _impossible_, but he knows it to be _true_. He trusts Martin with _all_ of himself. And it isn’t terrifying, it feels _safe_.

Martin smiles and it is warm and familiar and it nestles in right beside Jon’s heart and stays there. “Then trust me _now_. I’m getting you out of that thing. And Elias isn’t gonna hurt _either_ of us.”

Jon just sniffles and nods. He tilts his head how Martin asks him to as Martin leans in and begins fiddling with a paperclip in the lock.

“How did you get in here?” Jon whispers, careful not to breathe too much.

“Jimmied a window.” Martin catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he works. “You should tell Elias he needs better security if he’s going to be leaving his poor, defenseless husband all alone.”

“You’re pretty adept at picking locks and breaking and entering,” Jon observes, a tiny bit of feverish humor creeping into his cracked and tearstained voice. “Should I be _concerned_ about trusting a criminal?”

“Hey now, I learned these skills doing follow up for _you_, mister,” Martin scoffs with mock indignation.

“And I’m grateful for it,” Jon says fondly, sliding his fingers onto Martin's knees.

The sound of the lock clicking open is like a sigh of relief and Martin eases the collar off and throws it to the side. He drops it onto the ground, the iron hitting the carpet with a soft _thump_. The sudden rush of the heat being taken away from his skin leaves Jon lightheaded and he _wobbles_ for a moment. Martin’s fingers are cool and gentle as he reaches up for the fabric pressed into Jon’s neck and begins to peel it away.

It doesn’t come easy. Jon has to grab onto Martin’s thighs and hold tight as the oozing surface of his burns pulls painfully against the cloth. But he bites his tongue, squeezes his eyes shut, and lets Martin continue, because he can’t _stand_ to have anything around his throat for a single _second _longer.

“Oh god,” Martin says quietly, his voice trembling. Jon can feel his heartbeat pulsing loud in the raw surface of his blisters, and the cool air of the room is almost painful in its soothing touch. Jon digs his fingers into Martin’s thigh and strains his head higher, trying to keep any of his neck from bunching down and pressing against itself.

“It’s fine,” Jon chokes out through the throbbing pain, trying to sound more confident than he feels. He pats Martin’s knee with stiff fingers. “I’ll be _fine_. I—I h-heal quickly.”

“Burn salve. Elias has burn salve. Where does he keep it?”

Jon’s head spins as he struggles to answer the question, eyes only momentarily squeezed shut. “H-his desk. In the study.”

Martin reaches over and grabs his messenger bag that he must have brought in with him. Jon hadn’t noticed it before, but he sees it now, worn and fully packed to bulging. Martin lifts the strap over his head and settles the bag at his hip before looping an arm around Jon’s midsection and bringing them both to their feet. 

He’s apologizing as they go, something about wanting Jon to be able to just _stay here_ but not daring to leave him _alone_, and that he’ll be needing him soon, and that he’ll be needing him _better_, but Jon can’t hold onto the words. He’s focused on keeping himself conscious and getting one foot in front of another. Everything else can _wait_.

Martin sits him down on the loveseat in the library, making sure he’s propped up safely before rushing off to rifle through the drawers of Elias’ desk. He tosses things left and right, upending books and papers into messy piles on the floor that tighten Jon’s heart in his chest.

“D-don’t,” he pleads, slightly delirious, and Martin turns quickly, rushes to check on him. “Don’t m-make a mess. Elias will, Elias will be _angry_.”

Martin kneels in front of Jon and takes his hands, wrapping them up in gentle warmth. He looks up at Jon with a serious expression, focused and dedicated. “It’s alright, Jon. You don’t _ever_ have to worry about Elias again.”

And when he says it, Jon can't help but believe him.

Martin’s hands are so gentle as he smooths the cream over Jon’s burns, and already he is beginning to come back to himself. He’s not sure how much of that is his naturally accelerated healing and how much is the salve, but it’s welcome all the same. As Martin works, Jon’s eyes keep straying back to his messenger bag, resting on his hip. 

“What’s in there?” His throat moves with the words beneath Martin’s fingers.

“Trust.” Martin lays a hand on the top of it, protectively. 

Jon closes his eyes. “Elias will be back soon.”

“Do you _know_ that, or do you just know him well after all this time?” Martin sets aside the cream, checking to see if he missed anywhere with gentle hands.

Jon swallows, trying to separate the different strands of certainty that curl around his heart like iron. “Maybe both.”

Martin’s eyes flicker to his bag for a long quiet moment. Then he looks back up, meeting Jon’s eyes. “Do you want me to put on bandages?”

“No,” Jon answers quickly. Martin rests his hands on the ground and pushes himself up to his feet. He holds a hand out and Jon takes it gratefully, using Martin as a grounding point to lever himself up to standing. He already feels strong enough to support himself, but he doesn’t let go. “No, I don’t want _anything_ around my neck. Not _ever_ again.”

Martin squeezes his hand and then the door to the study bangs open.

“You cannot have seriously believed I would be stymied by Mr. Stoker _twice in a row._” Elias rolls into the room like a storm cloud, as imperious and imposing as Jon has ever known him to be. Peter Lukas follows on his heels, cold wind after rain, and Jon feels his breath leave him all at once in _panic_. He takes a half-step behind the relative safety of Martin’s shoulder. He’s not sure who scares him _more_, the _monster_ only his husband has been able to protect him from, or his husband _himself_.

“Tim didn’t have to do anything but delay _you_. And he did it _admirably_.”

“Oh did he?” Elias sneers, and Jon shrinks back. “Because I seem to have made it home in time to find you _still here_, your dirty hands on _my_ husband, and your pathetic, poorly thought through rescue attempt barely even _begun_.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Martin puffs his chest out and lifts his chin and Jon stares at him in awe. He’s never seen someone talk this way to Elias before. “The rescue is already _done_.”

Elias opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t find the words. His chin bobs up and down as he furrows his brow, trying to piece together what he’s missing.

“Letting me into the Lonely was the worst mistake you’ve _ever_ made.” Behind Elias, Peter looks nervously back and forth between Elias and Martin as if he wants to get a word in edgewise. Martin squeezes Jon’s hand tightly in his and then lets go, turning to the side to open his bag.

All the air goes out of the room.

Martin moves so delicately as he pulls the skin free from his bag, carefully supporting the thick, silver, blubbery flesh as if it is the most valuable thing he has ever touched. Every single one of them knows what he has, it is _unmistakable_, the impossibly intricate patterns of the gray fur, the slight aura of power and sea salt scent that rolls quietly off of it. A _selkie_ skin.

“I win.”

Elias turns on his heel and grabs Peter violently by the collar. He drags him down until they’re face to face and screams at him. “What did you _do?_”

“I didn’t!” Peter protests, waving his hands, a small whine in his tone. “That’s… that’s _impossible_! When he realized the skin was in the Lonely I kicked him out I didn’t _let_ him—”

“And you didn’t think to _tell me?_” Peter flinches back from that snarl, the _viciousness_ behind it. 

“I’ve been _trying_ to, that’s what I’ve been trying to _do_, but you wouldn’t stop talking about _Martin_ and getting back to Jon and...” Peter babbles uncontrollably and he is like a shadow at noon, suddenly shrunken and _pathetic_. Like a nightmare brought into the light of day, stripped of its fear.

Jon turns to look at Martin, tracing the hard edge of his face as he stares forward at Elias and Peter arguing. His eyes slip down to the skin still in Martin’s grip and it is familiar, _intimately_ familiar. The subtlest of patterns that could only be recognizable to someone who has taken the time to truly appreciate it. When Jon looks back up at Martin, Martin meets his gaze from the corner of his eye and very quietly _shushes_ him.

Elias flings Peter’s collar to the side in disgust. “You _unbelievable idiot_. I give you one job. _One_. So simple a _dog _could do it and somehow you still manage to bungle it like the _failure_ you are.”

“I’m telling you _I didn’t_. It’s impossible that he could have found it. He wouldn’t know where to look!” It's almost unnerving, seeing Peter look so _weak_. Jon remembers how he was at the party, all cold menace and barbed words. How threatening he had been when he cornered Jon in the hallway. How he could have killed Jon so long ago, left him abandoned and frozen in the Lonely, if Elias hadn’t come home and rescued him. Jon blinks, and suddenly everything slides together with a sickening certainty.

“You were _working together_?” Jon takes a step forward on shaky legs and Elias turns quickly to face him. He tries to swallow the tremor in his voice, and only half succeeds. “_All_ this time? Every time he hurt me and you protected me, it was all _your_ doing?”

Elias’ face softens as he reaches out towards Jon, but it is too little too _late_. A splash of paint on an ugly, crumbling wall. “I know what’s _best _for you, pet. I just needed you to _trust_ me.”

“How could I ever trust you after that?” Jon chokes on disbelief, on anger, taking a step back from Elias’ reaching hand. 

“By the time you found out, you wouldn’t have _cared_. You were a _masterpiece_, Jonathan, and if it hadn’t been for _him_—” Elias juts his chin out at Martin, quick and cruel, “it all could have been so much more _pleasant_. He’s the one who forced my hand. You would have _enjoyed _it.”

“You’re _sick_.” Jon reaches out and grabs Martin’s sleeve tightly, glaring at Elias. With a snap of teeth that rings of finality he says, “I will _never_ be yours. _Ever_ again.”

“Yes, well,” Elias straightens up and steps back until he is fully blocking the doorway. “Luckily for me, you won’t have a _choice_.”

Elias flicks his eyes to Peter, who stands dumbfounded staring back at him. Elias scowls deeply. “Well? Go _take it back._”

“Hold on tight,” Martin whispers, bringing the skin in close to his chest. Jon brings his other hand up and wraps himself around Martin’s bicep like a drowning man. Peter tears his gaze away from Elias to glare over at Jon and Martin before stomping up to them, hatred in his eyes.

“Okay, puppy.” Peter lifts his hands and the fog begins to rise around them. “Time to go back in your cage.”

The world goes _cold_. The heat of Martin’s arm still pressed up against Jon feels distant, as though there are layers and layers of cotton fuzzing up the space between them. The smell of the sea rolls over him and leaves him _nauseous_, but beneath the instinctive panic, Jon _finally_ recognizes it. The smell of his own skin. It’s been right in front of him the _entire time_. And like a limb waking up, full of stinging pain as blood rushes back into the frozen extremities, Jon finally feels that little tugging in his chest, drawing him home.

“I _feel_ it.” Tears spring to his eyes as joy rips through him so fast he can barely process it.

Beside him, Martin breathes out in relief. “Oh thank god. Your mum would kill me if I took her skin into the Lonely for nothing.”

“Where do you think Peter is?” Jon peers around the foggy landscape, but he can’t make out anything distinct, even _looking_ as hard as he can. It’s as if the world doesn’t exist outside of the space he and Martin take up. 

“I don’t know.” Martin folds up Cordelia’s skin carefully and puts it back into his bag so that he can take Jon’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly. “But we’d better hurry to your skin before he does whatever he’s planning.”

Walking through the Lonely is like floating with your eyes closed. Jon has no sense of up or down—even the ground beneath his feet feels immaterial and unreal. The only thing keeping him grounded is Martin’s hand held tightly in his own, and the natural compass warm in his chest that wants him to be _**whole**_ again, that connects flesh to flesh and guides him _forward_.

Jon suddenly feels a sharp heat lance through his chest. It is so shocking against the cold empty _nothing _of this place that he can’t help but double over with the pain of it. He tilts his head up in time to see the fog parting like a wave around Peter as he walks out of it. He is almost more fog than man himself, bending into existence as he approaches. A thick, gray sealskin dangles from his upraised hand. _This_, Jon knows deep in every fiber of his being, is truly _his_ skin. Finally, after _all_ this time. His skin, home and self and the sea, all in one.

“You know, I _told_ him there was _no way_ you could have gotten this out of the Lonely,” Peter says, frustrated, shaking his head. “He _never_ listens to me.” 

“Peter.” Jon slowly rises back to standing, using his grip on Martin to help himself up. “_Please_.”

“Please what?” Peter raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d ever give this _back_ to you?”

“What do you even _get_ out of helping him?” Martin covers Jon’s hand on his arm with his own, lending a pitiful amount of warmth against the crushing cold of the fog around them. “What did Elias promise you?”

“The selkie’s going to be _ours_.” Peter grins, loose and predatory. “Once Elias has it _properly_ broken, of course, then he’s going to share and we _both_ get a pretty little pet. I’ve been thinking for _months_ about what I’m going to do once I’m finally allowed my hands on it.”

Jon laughs. He can’t _help_ it. After everything, all the torments he’s suffered through, it’s all so painfully clear and pathetically funny. Peter is glaring at him in confusion as Jon struggles to regain his composure.

“Peter,” Jon says, hysterical laughter still curling in the lilt of his voice. “Peter, you know he’s _never_ going to do that.”

Peter’s smile drains away. “_What_.”

“How long have you known Elias that you don’t realize he hates giving up what’s _his?_” Jon doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand, but he takes a step closer, suddenly bold. “He makes _promises_ and then he moves the goalposts. Why would he ever let you _share_ _me_ when you’ve already _given_ him everything he wants?”

“You don’t know _anything_ about me and Elias. We have a connection you can never understand.” The way he says it reminds Jon of his rules. _Elias'_ rules. Repeated over and over, as if that would turn them into indisputable truth.

“Did _Elias_ tell you that?” Jon raises an eyebrow and Peter shakes with rage.

“This isn’t a lie. He _married_ me.”

“He married me too.”

“That’s different. _I’m_ different.” The fog around Peter grows denser, darker, like storm clouds curling menacingly around his form. 

“Do you know what the difference is between you and me, Peter?” Jon lets go of Martin’s hand and takes another step forward until he can tilt his head back and stare directly up into Peter’s eyes. “_Nothing_.”

“I—I don’t… how _dare _you.” Peter tries to puff himself up intimidatingly, but it’s too late. Jon sees straight through him.

“We’re both nothing but pets to him. _Animals_. Dogs to be leashed and called to his side when he _wants_ us.” Jon sweeps a hand out to the side, the fog blowing back from the movement. “Don’t you see the way he talks to you? He doesn’t _respect_ you. He’s just _using _you.”

“He called you an idiot,” Martin adds from behind him. “He doesn’t even think you’re clever enough to have _betrayed_ him.”

"That's enough out of you," Peter snaps, and just like that, Martin is _gone_. The warmth drops away into a chill that seeks to consume Jon, seep into his very bones.

Emptiness washes over him like a tidal wave. He’s alone. He’s abandoned. It is just like the first time he was in the Lonely, when he’d had no one. When he’d been dropped in desperate and starving and broken and then dragged back out, all by cruel design. Jon sees it now, the pattern that had always been too close for him to comprehend. 

Jon takes a deep breath to keep himself focused. He can’t lose himself to the cold and the panic like he did before. It’s different now. He has Martin this time. And Peter cannot _take him_. 

"He's not _yours_," Jon says, putting power behind the words. He glares at Peter and stands tall, less the feral creature Elias stole, now something closer to the monster Elias created. Something Unblinking. Eye-bound.

"He's _lost_," Peter says, almost friendly in his overconfidence, like he's toying with Jon. "You can sense that can’t you? The Lonely will have him and Elias and I will have _you_."

Jon narrows his eyes. _**“No.”**_

Jon reaches out of himself and _sees_ Martin. Sees the light, the kindness, and the steel within him. He sees cleverness and determination and reaches out for it in the shape of the man he loves. Touches, through the fog, the person who first reached out to a scared, trapped selkie and showed him what _real_ human kindness looks like.

Jon holds out his hand, fingers outstretched, everything that is Martin dangling just at the edge of his reach, and then he takes Martin’s hand and _pulls_. The fog between them crumbles as Jon forces Martin back through it, _knowing_ he is there by his side until Martin rematerializes beside him, as if he had never left. Martin looks a little worse for wear, shivering and clutching both Jon and the bag with Cordelia's skin. Jon presses a kiss to Martin's hand and then turns back to Peter, his gaze _sharp_.

Peter looks gobsmacked, staring first at Martin, then at Jon. Jon is sure he can see the beginnings of fear in those pale eyes. _Good_.

"How?" Peter demands, voice rising harshly. "You can’t do that! Not here! This is _my_ domain." 

Peter steps forward, and Jon does not flinch. He's tired of being afraid of men who think that they _own_ him. Who think they can _control_ him. Who think they can take away everything he loves.

"You _can't_ keep Martin from me. You won't be _able_ to keep my skin from me. Not anywhere, not anymore. Do you know what that means?" 

It's Jon who takes a step forward, now, and Peter backs away, despite his height, despite the rage Jon can almost feel rolling off of him. "It means Elias won't _need_ you anymore. If you can't keep my skin from me, what _good _are you? If you can't be used to _punish _me, why keep you around? Face it," Jon snaps, and Peter flinches. "When he finds out you’re of no use to him he will _throw _you away and find someone new who can serve him better than his former, defective, _ex-husband_."

“Watch how you talk to me,” Peter hisses, all cold anger, an ice storm pressing in. “I’m the one holding your skin right now. _Elias_ doesn’t own you, _I do_. I could take you away right now, make you _mine_.” Peter digs his nails into Jon’s coat and Jon cries out, the pain sharp against his midsection as if he’s being stabbed. His knees shake and he nearly drops to the ground. 

Martin lurches forward to catch Jon, holding him up. It takes a second for Jon to push past the agony and look up to meet Peter's eyes. 

“Sure,” Jon says, gritting his teeth, keeping the panic at that thought tightly tamped down in his chest. It's easier, with Martin holding him close. “And you could keep me trapped, like Elias did, if you wanted. Force me to marry _you_."

Jon growls the words out, pouring power into them, a riptide to drag Peter under.

_ **"But I’m not the one you want, am I, Peter?”** _

Peter starts to tremble. He shakes his head and Jon isn’t sure if it’s with rage or denial. Slowly, the hand holding Jon’s skin loosens, and the stabbing pain ebbs away. The bottom of the skin is brushing the ground, slipping from Peter's fingers. It is so close Jon could just reach out and grab it, but he doesn’t. He can’t. _Not yet._

“It’s hard, isn’t it,” Jon murmurs, pity and understanding bleeding into his tone, “loving someone who doesn’t love you back.”

“What would _you_ know about it.” Peter’s voice is harsh and bitter. “He’s _always_ loved you. So much. He used to look at me like that, back in the beginning. Now we’re not even _married_ and the only way he’ll talk to me is if we’re plotting over _you_.”

“It sounds like he just needs a _reminder_,” Jon says, his lips curling into a smile that's all teeth. “To remember how much he ought to appreciate you. A reminder that _you’re_ just as powerful as him. Some _alone_ time, just for the two of you.”

“He’ll _have_ to choose you, if you’re the only choice.” Martin steps forward and rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon can even feel the heat from it now.

Peter shakes his head, and it's almost pathetic. Sad. “He wouldn’t ever forgive me for letting his selkie go.”

“He doesn’t _control_ you. And after everything he’s done to you, I think he deserves to have a plan come crashing down on him. Just_ once_.”

Peter barks out a laugh and tilts his head back to stare out into the endless void. “He _is_ a prick, isn’t he.”

“True. But he can be _yours_. You want him, don’t you?” Jon reaches out carefully and closes a hand around his skin. It sends a thrill of warmth through him and his knees nearly buckle with relief at the familiar feeling of his own, soft fur. Peter doesn’t resist as Jon slides his pelt free from his loose grip.

Jon wraps his arms tight around his coat, pulling it to his chest, and buries his face in it, breathing in the welcoming scent of salt and his own body heat. The tension in his body leaks away as he burrows in closer to the fur he thought he’d never ever get to touch again. He is _himself_ again. Finally, he is _whole_.

“Fine, selkie.” Peter takes a step back and crosses his arms. “You win then. You get Elias out of your hair.”

Jon reluctantly lifts his face out of his skin. “We _both_ win. You get to keep him for _yourself_, and I never have to see him again.” 

“You really are just like him,” Peter says with another helpless shake of his head. “All three of you. _Beholding_ types. I really can’t stand it.”

Jon turns to face Martin and, with only a moment of hesitation, pushes his skin into Martin’s arms. His hands against it feel just as warm as Jon had imagined they would. Martin stares at him in open shock and confusion. “Jon, what—”

“It’s a piece of me,” Jon explains, soft, petting a hand down the fur gently. “It should be enough of the person you… the person you care about to get you out of here. If you get lost, just remember that I love you.”

Martin’s voice catches in his throat. “Aren’t you coming with me?” 

“I would prefer not to bring my skin anywhere _near_ Elias ever again. And Peter and I have to finish wrapping things up there.” Jon braces a hand on his own skin and gets up on his tiptoes until he can press his lips against Martin’s. They are warm and soft, like Martin’s hands on his skin, gentle, caring, like Martin has _always_ been. Jon pulls back and smiles up at him. “I trust you.”

Martin bundles Jon’s skin carefully in his arms, holding it close to his chest as a slight blush rolls through his cheeks. “Come back to me.”

“Of course.” Jon presses a hand to Martin’s arm just once, before stepping away. “I’ll always come back to you.”

***

When Jon and Peter reappear in the library, Elias is sitting on his desk, hands folded in his lap and his ankles crossed neatly. He surveys the scene with those eyes of his, always so _sharp_, so confident, so sure that he holds every string. He smiles and Jon _hates_ him, the way he has never hated _anyone_ in his life.

“Oh, my love, don’t be upset. It had to be done.” Elias opens his arms out wide as he coos at Jon in his softest voice. “Come here, come here.”

Jon steps forward silently, obediently, crossing the space until he rests at the edge of the desk, Elias’ thighs pressed tightly to his hips. He caresses the edges of Jon’s face, admiring every line and curve of him.

“I _know_ how you hate the Lonely, pet. I would _never_ have put you there if Martin hadn’t tried to interfere. But it’s alright, you’re safe now. You’re back with me and I’ll take care of you. I _always_ take care of you, don’t I, Jonathan?”

Jon nods, leaning his face into the heat of Elias’ hands. One slides up into Jon’s hair and he shivers. It’s all so familiar. Almost _nostalgic_.

“Let me warm you up,” Elias murmurs, and leans forward, catching Jon’s lips with his own. The _heat_ is there, but it is _nothing_ like kissing Martin. Now that he knows better, the difference is _stark_ and inescapable. Jon stays still and lets himself be kissed, lets Elias leverage his head to press them closer together, lets Elias slip his tongue in and deepen the kiss.

And then he _bites_.

Elias screams into his mouth as the blood rushes out hot and quick and fills Jon’s mouth with the sweet tang of iron. He steps back out of the kiss, leaving Elias panicking and grabbing at his half-stump of a tongue, trying desperately to put pressure on the wound. Jon turns his head and spits out the chunk of Elias’ tongue still in his mouth, watching as it bounces once, limply, against the floor.

“You’re not _worth_ eating.”

Jon turns away from Elias who is still wailing, tears pouring down his cheeks like blood down his chin. Jon wipes the blood off his own face with the back of his hand and grins, sharp as a knife, at Peter. “He’s all yours.”

Peter pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and crosses the room to press it into Elias’ mouth. Jon walks away, victory and freedom humming in his veins. He trails his slightly bloodstained fingers along the rows of spines until he reaches a familiar book on parapsychology. With a swift motion, he drops it to the ground and reaches past it to pull out the snowglobe Simon Fairchild gave him on his wedding night. He shakes it and watches as the snow swirls over the tiny plastic beach, the _only_ reminder of home he’s had for so, _so_ long. Almost crueler than nothing at all.

“I have something for you,” Jon says, turning back into the room where Elias is leaning helplessly against Peter, tears still rolling down his face. “It’ll be _good_, where you’re going, to have a reminder of where you came from.”

Jon walks forward and pushes the snowglobe into Elias’ unresisting hands. He stares up at him, and finally, _finally_, Jon sees his own hatred and fear mirrored back there. He tilts his head, patronizingly. “What do we say when someone gives us something?”

Elias glares at him and growls out something entirely unintelligible and half garbled with blood.

“Come now, Elias.” Jon shakes his head and tuts disapprovingly. “_Use your words_.”

Elias screams in frustration again, unable to respond without his tongue. His honeyed words have _finally_ run dry. Jon straightens up and nods at Peter, and then, with a waft of cold air, they are _gone_. Jon stands alone and bloody in the empty house that has been his _prison_ for nearly a year. He closes his eyes and focuses and feels it, the little tug in his chest pulling him back to his _skin_. Back to _Martin_.

Without a moment of hesitation, Jon leaves Elias’ house, walking out into the brilliant sunlight of the world outside. The air is soft on his face, the grass is itchy against his bare feet, and he feels _freer_ than he has _ever_ felt in his entire life. 

He doesn’t look back once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) 
> 
> I'm not gonna get full sappy cuz we still have one soft epilogue-y chapter to go before this story is actually complete, but getting to this moment still feels like the conclusion of a huge journey Jess and I have been on for the better part of a year and it's surreal that we've reached this point and have had so many amazing dedicated readers and fans. You all are incredible and we hope that you find the conclusion satisfying, even if it isn't exactly Elias being eaten the way you all wanted XD
> 
> We have more incredible art by Mugsy, potentially the softest jonmartin selkie snuggles I've ever seen: [check that our here](https://gertruderobinsonscat.tumblr.com/post/616560165804720128/some-more-fan-art-for-twodrunkencelestials-and)
> 
> As always a big thank you to OsirisJones/SmallHorizons for making this chapter what you see today. Also a huge thank you to everyone who has interacted with the story. People who have drawn art, left comments, sent us asks on tumblr, talked about side stories you'd like to write in the universe, all of you are a huge part of giving us the energy to make this happen and bringing us back week after week to try and measure up to your enthusiasm. We love and appreciate every one of you so much, and we hope you'll leave next week fully satisfied with the journey we've taken you on.
> 
> Until next week, the final selkie Tuesday, stay safe and we love you <3


	36. Salt and Sea and Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What belongs to the sea will always return to the sea.” - Rick Riordan, _The Lightning Thief_

“Can’t really sneak up on people anymore, huh.”

Jon stops a few feet behind Tim, his feet sinking into the soft earth. It feels odd to remember that only yesterday it was raining, the grass still slick and muddy from the downpour. Already it feels like another life. Another _him_.

“I guess this means you succeeded?” Tim looks up at him from where he sits on the ground, his eyes skating along the edges of the skin draped over Jon’s shoulders like a blanket. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Jon says quietly, pulling his skin tighter around him.

“And Martin?”

“Paying the cab fare.” Jon lets his gaze wander over the rows and rows of marble and stone. It’s peaceful. “Did you hear me coming?”

Tim turns away again, facing back towards the grave in front of him. “Nah, I smelled you. You stink of salt.” 

Jon takes another step forward and sinks to the ground beside Tim. The wet grass tickles the bottom of his skin and it’s like waking up with the sun in his eyes. Sensation bright and overwhelming after so much empty _nothing_.

“She’s not in there, you know,” Tim says, gesturing at the grave. “Her remains disappeared mysteriously. She’s _technically_ still a missing person’s case, but her folks wanted the closure. I think they _knew_ she wasn’t coming back.”

Tim spreads his hand over the mounded dirt, ruffling his fingers against the fuzzy green fertilizer that hasn’t yet had time to settle in. “Just another funeral for an empty box.”

“I would have been there.” The words tumble out of Jon’s mouth haphazardly, leaving a low ache in his chest behind. “If I… if I _could_ have been, I _would_ have been there.”

“Jon,” Tim fixes him with a low stare, “do you think I’m _blaming _you for being kept trapped and locked up by an abusive, murdering asshole?”

Jon pulls the edges of his skin up until they cover the bottom half of his face and cowers slightly behind them. He knows the answer Tim wants to hear, but at the same time, he isn’t sure whether it’s _true_. He’s more monster now than he was before. 

“Christ.” Tim runs a hand through his hair, leaving dirt and fertilizer behind. “I’d prefer that _not_ be such a difficult question to answer.”

Jon swallows, staring at the cold, lifeless stone, unable to look at Tim. He feels vaguely sick. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Tim’s eyes flick over Sasha’s grave as if he simultaneously can’t bear to look and can’t stand to look away. “None of the things you’ve done that matter can be fixed with an _apology_, and the ones that can be are more _my_ fault than yours. So we don’t have to waste our time.”

Jon threads his fingers into the grass and tugs at it gently. “Thank you for helping,” he murmurs, soft.

Tim purses his lips, the words bitter as he says, “Yeah, well. We all deserve better than the shit hand we’ve been dealt.”

“_There_ you are!” Jon looks up to see Martin approaching, breathing a bit heavily as he steps carefully around clumps of weeds and patches of muddy ground. “What are you _doing_ sitting down in a graveyard? I couldn’t see you over all the headstones.”

“Come join us.” Jon waves him over with a subdued smile, then plucks a blade of grass from the ground. He runs his fingers along the smooth, sharp edge, enjoying the way it pulls at his skin. “It’s nice down here.”

“I’d prefer not to ride back in wet trousers, thanks,” Martin says, crossing his arms, despite the small almost bittersweet smile on his face.

“Having a problem with getting _wet_ sounds like it’ll be an issue,” Tim says, a hint of his old humor creeping into his tone. “Considering you have a _seal_ for a boyfriend.” 

Martin splutters, the beginnings of arguments forming and dying on his lips. It's _adorable_.

“Not boyfriend,” Jon corrects, serenely. “_Husband_. I gave him my skin.”

Jon can see the moment that color explodes across Martin’s cheeks like an inkblot. It jumps up into his hairline and disappears down under the collar of his shirt, and Martin’s eyes go wide and dizzy staring at him. 

“H-husband? I— I didn’t think that, I _didn’t—_” Martin’s red face turns white as a sheet as he goes from embarrassed to panicked. “_Wait_ but your mum—Jon, I asked for her skin and she, she _gave_ it to me, and—” 

“Oooh,” Tim trills, mockingly, nudging at Jon’s knee with his foot. “Sounds like _you’ve_ got competition.”

“But I gave it _back!_” Martin squeaks, desperately, hands fluttering as he tries to explain.

Jon covers his mouth with a hand, trying valiantly to hold in the laughter that sneaks out from his nose and the corners of his lips. He pushes himself to standing, rushing to get a hand on Martin’s arm before the poor man faints from panic. “Martin, _Martin,_ I’m just _kidding_. You’re not married to _anyone_. It takes more than just holding a selkie’s skin. It’s… it’s _bigger_ than that.”

“Oh.” Martin stares at Jon, the anxiety slowly bleeding out of his wide eyes.

“I would _never_ trick you like that.” Jon reaches down for Martin’s hand and brings it up to his mouth so he can press a gentle kiss to the back of his knuckles. “When I ask you to marry me, you’ll _know_.”

“_Oh._” 

“You’re lucky you aren’t here to see this, Sash, it’s absolutely disgusting.” Jon glances away from the bright red Martin, back at Tim and sees him patting the grave again, shaking his head in defeat. “I can’t _believe_ I’m going to have to share an office with this _melodrama_.”

“The _archives_,” Martin says, breathily, pulling his hand quickly out of Jon’s grasp. Martin is still charmingly red in the face, but Jon can see the happiness there at the possibility in their wide open future. “I didn’t even think about what was going to happen to them. Are you— will we all still just _work_ there? As if nothing’s happened?”

“I don’t think Elias was lying when he said we were _bound_ there. I still feel the connection.” Jon pulls his hand inside the comforting circle of his coat and curls it up against his chest. “I’m not _free_ of being the Archivist.”

“But what about the ocean?” Martin pushes.

“I’m still going back.” Jon glances at Martin from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. The knowledge that Jon comes from a different world has been a constant, inescapable undercurrent beneath the joy of their victory, but they haven’t _dared_ to discuss it. “I just can’t stay there forever.”

“But—”

“It’s alright.” Jon steps in close to Martin and presses up against his side. He’ll never get over the wonderful warmth of having his skin tight between Martin’s arm and his own. Like a promise that can’t be broken. “_You’re_ here. How could I _not_ come back?”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t run straight to the ocean.” Tim finally pushes himself to standing as well, brushing dirt off the knees of his trousers. “I feel like that’d be _my_ first stop. _Not_ standing around in a graveyard with my coworker who threatened my life a couple times.”

Jon inches his hand down until he finds Martin’s and entagles their fingers. “_Soon_,” he promises, mostly to himself. He remembers _intimately_ the cold rejection he’d felt when he first washed up on that beach, the severing of his soul and the sea.

“Soon.”

***

The tea that sits in front of them is warm, the honey and lavender mixing with the scent of not just one, but _two_ selkie pelts. Martin sits in a chair to Jon’s right, his leg pushed up against Jon's, his smile soft and beautiful, and Jon can’t contain his own smile. Jon’s skin drapes over both his and Martin’s shoulders, bringing them gently together. Ever since winning back his freedom from Elias, Jon hasn’t quite been able to _stop_ smiling. 

Jon shares the loveseat with his mother, her skin draped over both their laps, and he has never felt quite so _grounded_ as he does at this moment—tucked beneath two selkie skins, and curled between two people who love him. 

Cordelia is holding a knife made of a thin, black stone—obsidian—and set with a lovely pearl handle. She looks pleased, but her hand slides nervously back and forth up the back of her pelt. 

"I got it especially for this," she admits, letting Jon take the knife from her hands and look it over. "It was _years_ ago. I didn’t really think I’d ever get to use it, I was just..._hoping_. Hoping to someday have the chance to make it up to you."

The shimmer of the handle is lovely against the shiny black blade, and when he presses the edge into the pad of his thumb it slices in easily. Sharp. Sharper than he had expected. Blood trickles down his finger and he hesitates for a moment before lapping at it gently.

"I warned you," Cordelia teases, and Jon shrugs. He never could resist. He draws his tongue over the cut once more as he hands the knife back.

Cordelia brushes a hand over her pelt, gently tracing the back of the neck. It's as unmarked as Jon's, and his heart begins to race as it sinks in that soon, it won't be. Soon, he'll have the Blessing from his mother, the Blessing that is his birth-right. 

Skin-blessed as he already is, it is more symbolic than anything else; the approval and love of a mother who walked the same path as him, who welcomes not just him but the man he loves into her family. After all this time, he finally has her—will have a piece of her. Jon sniffles, and he feels her slide her free hand into his. Sees the tears in her eyes.

"See, Cordy? I _told_ you I'd make a terrible witness. All I can do is hear you two blubbering over there. Have you even cut the skin yet?" Emma teases from her chair, the amusement and fondness in her tone warming Jon's heart. He's so _glad_ his mother found her. He's so glad he found _Martin_.

"It still _technically_ counts as witnessing," Martin says, then half mutters, "well. _Sort_ of." He shrugs and flashes a quick smile at Jon. His hand brushes over the corner of Jon’s pelt hanging over him, and Jon feels that warmth, like a line between them, electric and wonderful and _soft_. 

It's _fascinating_, the differences and similarities between his and his mother's pelts. Each mark and scar highlight their diverging paths in life, and Jon could spend hours studying them, learning each and every detail. He tries to remember his grandmother's pelt, tries to recognize her own patterns in the ones dotting his mother’s skin. 

The scars though, he knows are not the same. Where his grandmother’s pelt was cut with bites and scratches from a lifetime of battles, his mother’s was burnt and branded by human iron. Where his grandmother’s skin bore the wear and tear of young selkie teeth, marks left by bored and foolish pups, Cordelia’s had none.

"Are you ready?" Cordelia asks, softly, fiddling with the knife. Jon swallows against the swirl of thoughts, staring again for a moment at the untouched pelt.

"Yes," he says, grounded right here, right now, by the soft breathing of Emma, the real weight and warmth of Martin touching him, and the scent of seabrine and lavender.

With bated breath, Jon and Martin both watch Cordelia take the knife and slide it into the top layer of her pelt. The skin doesn't bleed _per se_, not _properly_ while it's like this. His mother's bitten back hiss of pain reveals more, though, than blood ever would.

Jon's heard that the pain, the actual _sharing_, is supposed to represent the pain of giving up a piece of yourself. But alongside that, it shows what it means to be part of something _bigger_. Part of a path built by generations and generations of selkies, shared from parent to child, spouse to spouse, a bond of skin and flesh and _sea_.

Cordelia doesn't take much, just a small piece. Her hands shake slightly as she holds out the knife towards Jon, the flesh balanced just on the edge of it. Jon takes the skin, careful not to cut himself again, and slides it into his mouth. 

It really isn't any _different_ than the other times he's been fed selkie meat. He was too young to remember receiving his true blessing from his grandmother. But with his mother’s eyes trained on him, watching as he _chooses _to take in this piece of her, It feels far more significant. She smiles and covers his hand with her own, her other brushing the hair from his face so that she can lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. 

Jon closes his eyes and swallows, leaning into his mother's arms, and something in him finally feels _right_, settled in a way he hadn't even noticed was _unsettled_ before. Everything clicking into place, like each moment spent here is a step forward into his future. 

"I'm… I’m sorry," he murmurs, trying to blink away the happy tears. When it doesn't work, he pulls back so he can wipe them away with the sleeve of his sweater. It once belonged to Martin, but by now it might as well be Jon’s. 

"My boy, my lighthouse, _look_ at me." Jon glances up to meet Cordelia’s eyes and she presses her forehead into his, nuzzling their noses together. "You don't have to apologise to me for daring to _feel_." She pulls him close, into those warm, safe arms again, and Jon relaxes. 

"Thank you for accepting this blessing from me, moonbeam," Cordelia whispers into his ear, and Jon can hear the smile and relief in her voice. "I'm just sorry that it took so long. That I couldn't have given it to you the first time."

"I understand," Jon says, and he _does_. He remembers what she’s been through as if it was his own life. A gift from Elias he will never truly be rid of. He knows the pain his mother carried with her as she stumbled free of the Institute. He wouldn’t have been able to raise a child either. Life at sea is not always forgiving, but Jon's path is somewhere between the sea and land now. This kind of forgiveness is easier in the inbetween, in shared stories and lessons hard earned. In love and company and home.

He and Martin stay for a while after that, wrapped up in listening to stories of trips and friendships and a happy home. Jon watches his mother and Martin talk, and lets himself imagine suppers with the four of them. Beach trips, where he and his mother are free to be themselves, and share that part of themselves with their spouses. It’d felt impossibly far away for so long, but now it's all so close. Within his reach. 

"So what are your plans?" His mother asks, when Martin is off getting more tea for the four of them. Jon shrugs, but smiles all the same. 

He and Martin have started on the vague outline of plans, a nebulous future that they can choose for themselves. They've already spoken about a trip to Scotland. Somewhere along the coast. 

First, though, they're going to Bournemouth. It’s where his mother used to swim, back before she was taken. He’d spent a lot of time around there as a pup himself, among the waves and sand. 

"We have a small trip planned," he answers, hand curled comfortably around his mug. "It'll be my...my first time back to the sea in a long while. I'm—ah—I might be a little nervous. I wanted it to be somewhere special."

"Understandable." Cordelia nods. 

"I remember when Cordy 'n I took our first trip,” Emma pipes in, a half grin on her face. “She was shaking, leaning on me as she led us to the sea. The pure _joy_ I heard in her as soon as she splashed into that water, I don't think I'll ever forget it." 

Emma sounds so in love, still so utterly charmed by the memory, even years later. Jon looks to his mother, who, for a moment, only seems to have eyes for her wife. 

"It didn't fix everything," Cordelia admits. "Only time can do that. But it was like being washed clean, the first layer of dirt and pain rinsing away, being replaced by salt and sea and song. The ocean welcomed me home, like I'd never been taken. I know it will for you too."

Jon is crying again, little sobs that barely fill his throat. When his skin had first been taken, it had felt like the only home he’d ever known had rejected him, cold and distant and cruel. If what his mother says is true, perhaps eventually he can feel alright again. Maybe even _better_, now that he has Martin by his side.

"Tea!" Martin says cheerfully as he returns with the platter of tea and biscuits. His smile is like sunlight. Jon smiles right back, and everything feels _right _in that glowing, golden afternoon.

***

The trip to Bournemouth is strange. For all his wanderings, it's the closest place he’s ever had to home, but now, after so long away, he almost doesn’t recognize it. He stares out the window of the cab at the glint of the ocean on the horizon and it looks cold and unfamiliar. Distant in a way it’s never been before. He’d thought it would feel _right_ to return to the sea here, but instead he’s filled with a sudden dread.

What if it doesn’t _want_ him back?

Martin’s hand lands on his, pressing down into the soft leather seat beneath them. Jon leans his forehead against the cool glass window and closes his eyes. Whatever happens, he won’t be alone. It’s still odd, having someone beside him that he truly _wants_ to be there.

Jon's hand is still intertwined with Martin's as they walk down the rocky path toward the beach. In a bag slung over his shoulder—the same bag that carried his mother's pelt—Jon carries his own skin. His other hand is shoved deep inside the bag, running his fingers over and over the soft velvet of his own fur. In Martin’s other hand, he carries an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket given to them by Cordelia. 

On the way over, they had picked up sushi. Jon had hemmed and hawed, struggling to choose between the wide variety of fish. It had all smelled so _tempting_. In the end, Martin had simply smiled and bought a variety of interesting ones he thought Jon would like best.

It's approaching evening now, and the beach is quieting down. The sun is setting, slow and steady, and Jon takes a moment to breathe in the world around them. It feels _right_, standing here, strangely dreamlike and perfect. For a moment, Martin's face is full of quiet awe, and he pulls Jon's hand up for a kiss, before dragging him down to the beach with the excitement of a child. 

They settle the blanket in a more secluded area near the waterline, far from any other people, and begin laying out their dinner on it. Jon is just digging his coat out of his bag when he hears the splash of waves and Martin's bright laugh. He looks up to see Martin, his toes in the water, digging them into the wet sand. 

"Come on Jon!" Martin calls, and Jon drapes his pelt securely over his shoulders. The walk to the ocean feels like miles, and Jon is suddenly, _irrationally_ struck for a moment by the fear that it won't feel right, that the sea might not _want_ its stolen child back. Maybe Elias was _right_. Maybe he doesn’t belong _anywhere_ anymore.

Jon breathes in deep, gathering his courage like a talisman, and takes the first steps forward. When he reaches the water's edge, however, he freezes. The cold water brushes over his toes and he cannot make himself take that plunge. He shakes with the effort, and tears begin to well in his eyes.

This should be easy. This is home, _his_ home. He's _free_. So why can't he just make himself take that one last step?

"Jon?" Martin's concerned tone pulls him out, and he looks up, wild-eyed. Martin comes toward him as the tide pulls away. "Are…are you ready?" 

Jon shakes his head, leaning into Martin's safe arms as he's engulfed in a hug. "That’s okay, Jon. You don't have to be ready right away. We can wait as long as you need."

Jon knows this, logically. He _does_. It's just impossible to escape the doubt Elias had ingrained in him. He feels pathetic, a terrified creature afraid of his own home. 

"I still want to,” Jon says quickly, before he can doubt himself. “But let's just—can we just walk a bit first?" 

Martin nods, pulling out of the hug and looping his arm through Jon's. He lets Jon lead, once or twice letting go to dip his feet in the sea. Once, Jon almost goes with him, but even Martin’s soft smile isn’t enough to melt the panic filling his throat. It’s _agonizing_, being so close and yet unable to cross the precipice. Jon can _hear _the call of the sea. He just wishes he could answer.

"Are you hungry? I know I could eat," Martin says, after a while. Jon stares across the water again, then nods, turning his back to the sea. 

They sit on the towel, and Jon can smell the sea still clinging to Martin. He intertwines their legs, and pulls Martin down for a kiss. His lips taste like salt, at once familiar and entirely new. There's something so _beautiful_ about Martin, something like seawater in how it slips through Jon’s fingers and cannot be grasped. He's a _pearl_ among humans, one Jon is lucky to have found.

Their supper is perfect, a simple, happy affair. They drape Jon's skin over their laps, warm against the growing cold of the evening air. They take turns feeding each other, soft teasing and softer kisses punctuating each moment. Jon finds he likes the raw fish best, although some of the spicy ones are _fascinating_ on his palate. He can't have too many of those, but Martin swears that it takes time to develop a tolerance, _if_ Jon wants to. There’s no rush, Martin reminds him, again and again. They have all the time in the world.

"Martin," Jon murmurs, after their remaining food is back in the basket and he and Martin are cuddled close. They are warm, legs tangled beneath his pelt. Martin's arms around him feel safe, far safer than Elias' ever did. His touch is electric but not _overwhelming_, and Jon loves him for that.

It’s easy, staring out over the ocean while curled close against Martin. Jon thinks perhaps, if he wanted, he could be content like this for the rest of his life. Content with the land, and with love, and to simply be _human_. After all this time, maybe he’s forgotten how to be a selkie. 

“We can go together,” Martin says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jon’s head, and in that moment Jon knows he is ready. He pushes himself to standing and pulls Martin up beside him, draping his skin around both their shoulders. The walk is easier this time, with Martin’s hand tight in his, each step more and more confident.

The cold ocean water is wonderful and _perfect_ on his feet, and with each step deeper and deeper in, the anxiety lessens, until the paralyzing fear finally slides away into nothing. The sand is wonderful between his toes, and the way the waves hit his ankles, steady and soft, feels like a song composed just for him. The gentle wind and the cry of the birds above like words to the melody.

Jon stops for a moment to roll the hems of his trousers further up before walking in until he's knee deep, each step one step closer to the beautiful blue depths he's missed like a lost limb.

He's taking in the scent, when he feels Martin lean in to nuzzle at his shoulder. 

"So?" Martin asks, rubbing circles on the pelt. Jon shivers, the quiet pleasure lovely and soft. He stares out for a moment, into where the open sky meets the sea, and turns to meet Martin's gaze. 

"It's—it's so _much_." Jon can't fully articulate the joy that swells in his heart like a rising tide. Martin here beside him makes it all the _sweeter_, warm compared to the chill. It's a perfect balance, and his heart _sings_. 

They spend more time playing in the tide, splashing each other or walking hand in hand, as Jon tells tales of his foolish childhood on these shores. Jon's apprehension lessens the longer they spend in the water, the leftover doubts Elias instilled in him slowly washing away with the tide. 

When the sun is low, and the beach is utterly still, things finally feel.._right_. It's almost time. Almost time to put on his skin and reconnect with his other home, with the moon and tides. There's an _ache_ in his chest though, when he thinks about it, quiet beneath the joy. 

"I won't be gone long," Jon says out loud, a promise to both himself _and_ Martin. Martin rubs a finger in steady circles on Jon's inner elbow before he meets Jon’s gaze. His eyes look watery, but his smile is so beautiful and proud. 

"I know. I know you will. I trust you." Jon hears the truth in Martin's words, deep and sincere. He trusts Jon, _knows_ he won't lose him to the sea. Martin trusts that his heart is safe in the hands of a wild creature. 

"I love you. I love you _so much_," Jon murmurs, leaning in to press his lips softly against Martin’s.

"Jon," Martin says, pulling back to look Jon in the eyes. "Jon, Jon, _Jon_." The affection bursting from his words says everything. "God, _you're—_ _I love you too_."

It takes so much to pull away, to leave that kind of devotion, even for a moment. But the sea calls, each rushing crash of water on earth like Jon’s own heartbeat. 

It's Martin who holds his skin as Jon strips down to nothing. Jon reaches out his hands and Martin slides the coat into his arms and pulls him in for one more kiss, one that contains all the promises of the future Jon could _ever_ want. 

With one long, final glance at Martin, Jon steps back and wraps his skin around himself. All around, everything is starlight and sea, home and endless love. The change feels as natural as slipping into the water, as easy as breathing. 

Jon _will_ be back. He already knows it with a bone deep certainty. Martin is his lighthouse, bright and shining through every stormy day and moonless night. He already feels the call of Martin's love, the path home set just before his feet. 

And he knows he will always return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _breathe in....breathe out_
> 
> and that's a series wrap on selkies :) Holy _crap_, I can't believe it's over. Hang in with me for a little bit longer guys, cuz I have a lot of important stuff to say down here.
> 
> First of all, our usual thank you to our amazing beta OsirisJones/SmallHorizons who is an invaluable and beloved part of our selkie family. Thanks for being with us every step of the way (since chapter 23 XD) 
> 
> Also!! We have gotten some _incredible_ new art this week, so definitely check those out:
> 
> [A sweet, sleepy selkie boy, by Wrenwhite](https://wrenwhite.tumblr.com/post/616992286271832064)
> 
> [An awesome scene of Jon and Peter's final showdown, by Creatrixanimi](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/617122853799821312/some-art-for-the-newest-chapter-for-what-belongs)
> 
> [A spookily accurate Jon and Martin parting, by Cucumberkale](https://cucumberkale.tumblr.com/post/617249021676896256/i-would-suppose-that-once-jon-has-his-skin-back)
> 
> That leads me into saying a huge huge thank you to everyone who has made us fanart. If you haven't been highlighted in one of these chapters, it means we didn't get to see your lovely art so please leave it linked in a comment, or hit us up on tumblr, we encourage and adore fanart and every single piece brings us so much joy to see. We still can't believe that you guys enjoy our little story so much that you want to create something for it, but we're beyond gratified each time you do. You guys are seriously incredible, and we couldn't have done this without all of you.
> 
> Speaking of fan creations! Some of you have expressed to us in the past a desire to write fic in this selkie universe, or spin off stories, or all kinds of stories inspired by our work. We absolutely love that y'all are so inspired, and of course you're welcome to write in it now that the main story is officially wrapped up! Jess and I only ask that if you write something, you credit and link back to this original story and mention that it's derived from our universe, but otherwise we want to encourage fanworks of any type. Please, if you write something, leave a comment here letting us know or send us a message on tumblr, because we are going to make an AO3 collection to hold all of our own extended selkie-verse pieces, and we'd love to add your guys' as well!
> 
> "Hey fly, did you just say you and Jess are planning on writing more selkie stories?" Yeah! We are! They won't be on any kind of week to week schedule, but we loved writing this story and there's so much more we want to explore! Probably these stories will be short and written independently between the two of us instead of together, and many of them won't be "canonical" to the plot of this one, but if you love this universe and are sad to see it end, keep your eyes peeled for more short stories coming your way at some point in the future.
> 
> Writing this fic has been....insane. I definitely underestimated the workload of posting a chapter every single week when we had virtually no buffer writing to tide us over. So I'm being entirely genuine when I say that the thing that kept pushing us, kept motivating us to stay up late and get each chapter done, was really you guys. All the comments, the kudos, the amazing messages you sent us on tumblr. The art, the moodboards, the seal memes, the enthusiasm, it's been absolutely incredible and we could never have done this without all of you being so uplifting and positive and supportive and just...
> 
> Thank you. For loving our fic. We love it, we worked really hard on it, we love all of you, and we're so glad it could mean something to so many people.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is going to be the longest fic either of us have ever attempted, but we're so excited to write this story that's been brewing for so long! We already have a lot of it written or outlined so hopefully we'll be able to keep to a timely update schedule. This is just the prologue, actual chapters will probably be longer and usually from Jon's POV. 
> 
> You can find us on tumblr @twodrunkencelestials and @apatheticbutterflies we're both big Magnus Archives fans and sometimes we post writing! Come talk to us.


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